In His Shadow
by chazper
Summary: Written for the OC Sentence Challenge. Ryan spends the day with Sandy. The characters belong to Schwartz & Company. Part 9: The Paper. Dedicated to beachtree, and finally complete.
1. Chapter 1

**In His Shadow**

**Part 1: The Assignment **

Sandy scanned the Cohen dinner table with a sigh of satisfaction.

Everyone was home. His wife and sons were laughing, trading take-out containers, arguing playfully about the food, filling their plates. There was something special about the sheer symmetry—two heads crowned with fine, blonde hair, two with unruly brunette mops, two quiet, reserved people, two—well, Sandy doubted if "loquacious" really conveyed Seth's ability to run verbal marathons, but it was as extreme a label as he was willing to apply to himself.

In all, Sandy thought, everything was damn near perfect. His chest clenched for a moment against a surge of fierce protectiveness, fueled by remembered fear. Over the last few months, Sandy had learned just how fragile family was; his own had come so close—much too close--to shattering.

Sandy shoved away those memories: Kirsten's alcoholism, her stint in rehab, the times she had lashed out and relapsed; Trey's death, the devastating guilt and grief that threatened to suck the life out of both his sons; Sandy's own burden of culpability, his exhaustion as he tried to keep the people he loved from splintering into pieces too jagged ever to mend.

But they were all there now around his table. They were together and life had resumed its familiar, comforting pattern.

"So, boys," Sandy asked, passing the salad, "anything interesting happen at school today?"

Seth smiled widely and hugged himself. "Ooh," he cooed. "I always get such a warm fuzzy feeling when Sandy Cohen becomes Papa Cliché. Don't you, Ryan? 'Did anything interesting happen at school'? That is just so Ward Cleaver of you, Dad . . . Mmm, sauce down this way, please, Mom. Must. Have. More. Sauce."

"Hey," Sandy protested, spearing a piece of ravioli. "Your mother and I happen to be concerned parents, thank you very much. We want to know what goes on in our kids' lives. So . . ."

"Okay then, since you asked, something pretty funny actually did happen today--" Seth began.

Sandy held up a warning finger. "Hold that thought, son. How about if we let Ryan answer first? He never gets a word in edgewise after the Seth Cohen filibuster begins."

"Man," Seth grumbled, scowling at a slice of radish impaled on his fork. "Once, just once, a guy talks for two hours straight, maybe two-and-a-half, and they act like he never shuts up."

"Seth . . ." Kirsten cautioned.

"Right." Seth popped the radish into his mouth. "Shutting up now. My mouth will open only to eat. But not to chew. Because that would be rude."

Sandy poured a glass of sparkling grape juice and passed it to Kirsten. "So, Ryan," he prompted. "Did anything interesting happen in school today? Feel free to expand the question, by the way—before school, after school, during lunch?"

Ryan held his fork in his mouth for a moment, considering.

"Dude," Seth whispered. "If you have to think about it that hard, probably really not so interesting . . . Hey!" He reached down and rubbed his calf, glaring accusingly at his mother. "Did you just kick me, Mom?"

"I don't know, sweetie," Kirsten replied innocently. "Did I? I was just crossing my legs. Sorry."

Seth stabbed a meatball, glowering. "Man, I am so not letting Summer spend any more quality time with you. Shopping," he scoffed. "Right. You guys haven't been shopping. She's been giving you shut-up-Seth lessons."

"Wonder if Summer's got an opening. I'd like to sign up for that class," Sandy teased, before turning his attention back to Ryan. "How about it, kid? Anything you want to share?"

Ryan took a deep breath and put his fork down. "Actually, Sandy, I . . . um . . . I'm taking a sociology course this semester."

"Damn!" Seth exclaimed. "Now that? Is fascinating. Okay, is it my turn to talk yet? 'Cause see, before third period today--"

Kirsten raised her eyebrows. She deliberately re-crossed her legs, and Seth scooted his chair away in alarm. "Tell us about the class, Ryan," she urged. "Seth won't interrupt you again. Will you, Seth?"

Shoving a mouthful of salad into his mouth, Seth waved his finger an emphatic no.

Ryan gave a lopsided smile. "Well, we got this assignment in soc today," he reported. His voice sounded oddly tentative, and he began to fold his napkin into a tightly furled fan. "It's . . . we're supposed to shadow somebody for a day. Find out what they do, what they enjoy about their jobs, what they dislike. You know, kind of a case study thing. And then we have to write a paper." Abruptly, he grabbed his glass, guzzling the water and coughing a bit as it rushed down his throat.

"Real-life experience. Sounds like an interesting assignment," Sandy observed. "Although I suppose that does depend on the person you shadow. Have you picked somebody, Ryan?"

Ryan's fingers twisted his napkin-fan into a pretzel shape. "Um . . . I thought maybe, you? I mean," he added hastily, "if it wouldn't be inconvenient or anything, Sandy."

Seth choked on a mouthful of pasta. "Dad?" he demanded. "You could pick anybody, and you want to spend the day following Dad around? Dude, that's just . . . it's pitiful, really. Hey, I met George Lucas once. Want me to see if he'd let you hang out with him?"

"I'm pitiful?" Sandy drawled. "Gee, son, thanks." He threw a mock-glare at Seth and then turned to study Ryan. The boy's gaze was fixed on his plate, eyes shadowed by his lashes, his cheeks faintly flushed. Clearly, Sandy realized, Ryan was uncomfortable, but he couldn't understand why.

"Okay, no, now see, I didn't say you were pitiful, Dad," Seth explained, with a placating grin. "It's just . . . the idea of spending a day with you? I mean, you're a lawyer. What's Ryan going to do? Watch you write a brief? . . . Seriously, man, about the George Lucas thing . . ."

"We're supposed to pick somebody we really admire," Ryan blurted. He gripped the edge of the table and looked up, swallowing hard. "The point of the assignment is to choose somebody who we consider . . . a role model . . . and spend the day finding out how he—or she—came to be such a . . . a good person, I guess."

There was a moment of silence at the dinner table. Something like panic flickered across Ryan's face as his eyes darted from Sandy to Kirsten to Seth and back again. Then Sandy smiled, reached over and squeezed Ryan's shoulder. "Thank you, kid," he said softly. "I'd be honored to have you shadow me for a day."

Ryan's bangs lifted under the breath he exhaled. "Thanks. Or, you're welcome? Anyway, good. That's just . . . it's good." He gulped some more water and added anxiously, "Kirsten? You know if I could have picked two people--"

"Oh, sweetie." Kirsten smiled, her voice as warm and reassuring as an embrace. "It's all right, really. In fact, it's wonderful. You made the perfect choice."

Relieved, Ryan risked a tentative grin, releasing his stranglehold on his napkin.

"So!" Sandy exclaimed exuberantly, raising his glass. "A toast to the unbeatable team of S. Cohen and R. Atwood." He waited while everyone took ceremonial sips of their sparkling grape juice. Then he suggested, "Let me check my appointment book, kid, see if I can't find a day when you won't have to spend hours doing something boring. Like watch me write a brief." Sandy wiggled his eyebrows meaningfully at Seth, who moaned and hid his head in his hands.

"Actually, Sandy, we can't choose the day. Unless there's a real problem, it pretty much has to be next Monday. Mrs. Suchan--the teacher—has already arranged for us to be excused from our other classes."

Seth's head bobbed up. "Whoa, whoa, wait up there, buddy," he ordered. "Let me get this straight. You get the day off school? Okay, see, suddenly your enthusiasm for this whole assignment makes sense. I mean, even Dad's not as boring as Dr. Hericks."

Ryan rolled his eyes. "Well, come on, Seth. What did you think? I was going to spend the day with Sandy and send my clone to class?"

"Okay, dude, now that's an idea." Seth laced his fingers together and propped his chin on them, peering at Ryan thoughtfully. "If you spent the day with George Lucas, you could probably learn how to do that. So, how about this . . . ?"

"Ryan," Sandy interjected. His face was grave, and his tone had become inexplicably serious. "You said next Monday? The sixteenth?"

"Yeah," Ryan confirmed, puzzled and a little concerned. "Is that a problem for you?"

Sandy pushed the ravioli around his plate absently. "No. No, it's not," he replied. "It'll be fine, Ryan. There's one appointment . . . But I'll reschedule it, that's all. Monday will be fine."

"Okay," Ryan agreed uncertainly. "So, what time will you want to get started?"

Sandy grinned. "Six o'clock," he said promptly.

Ryan's fork clattered back to his plate, splattering drops of sauce. "Oops. Sorry. But . . . six?" he demanded, scrubbing the table with his napkin. "In the morning? Sandy, you don't go to work that early."

"Nope. I surf. You'll need to be up by six so we can go surfing." Ryan's eyes widened incredulously and Sandy explained, "You're supposed to shadow me for the day, right, kid? Well, you know, I have a shadow the minute the sun comes up, and the sun is up when I go surfing, so . . ."

"So six o'clock," Ryan groaned.

Seth dimpled smugly. "Happy about your choice now, dude? Just wait until he sings along with show tunes in the car." He leaned over to whisper confidentially, "Dad knows hundreds of them. Literally. Hundreds, bro. Including all the songs to **_You're a Good Man, Charlie Brown_**."

Simultaneously, Kirsten kicked Seth under the table, Ryan elbowed him in the ribs, and Sandy tossed a roll that hit him on the chin.

"Hey, ow! Ow! And once more, ow! Fine," Seth muttered. "Shutting up again. Except, hey . . . doesn't anybody want to hear what happened before third period?"

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Ryan planted his surfboard next to Sandy's and took a deep, reverent breath as he looked around. "You really like this, huh?" he asked.

Sandy smiled. He stretched, taking a moment to appreciate the purity of the cloudless morning sky, the raw energy of waves chasing each other to shore, the fine, firm sand beneath his feet.

"Oh yeah, Ryan," he breathed. "This, I absolutely love. It all makes me feel . . . clean, somehow. In proportion. Connected to the world."

Ryan nodded. He had stumbled down the path to the ocean, yawning, and squinting blearily against the sun, but now, standing beside Sandy, sensing the serenity and confidence that radiated from the man, Ryan suddenly felt completely awake. Every muscle, every nerve ending, asserted itself, and he bounced a little on the balls of his feet.

If he had been younger, someone else—a little boy out on the beach with his dad—Ryan would have slipped his hand inside Sandy's just as a gesture of trust, a way they could share the perfection of the moment.

"I get that," Ryan said softly. "Being out here . . . it makes you feel sort of like . . . I don't know . . . being reborn."

"Exactly." Sandy turned from the horizon to look at Ryan. His hands were clasped behind his neck, his head tilting upwards, and his eyes reflected the sky, guileless and blue. Impulsively, Sandy reached over and ruffled Ryan's hair, then slid his arm down to clasp his shoulders. "I am really glad to have you here, kid."

Ryan flushed. That open-ended "here", the brief embrace, Sandy's smile, wide and warm as the sun . . . Ryan could feel them all melting something tight and sharp that had been frozen inside of him.

"Thanks," he said shyly. His voice caught, just a little. "I'm really glad to be here."

"Okay then." Sandy rubbed his hands together, and then crouched down next to his surfboard. "Time to do this thing, kid. You ready?"

"I guess," Ryan answered, trying to sound more positive than he felt. "Um . . . Sandy. Did you surf when you lived in New York? In the Atlantic Ocean, I mean?"

"Nope. Never even thought of it, until I moved here. You know that New Age phrase—'find your bliss'? Well, Ryan, this is mine." Sandy's gesture encompassed the rolling waves, the hills framing the beach, the houses in the distance.

"So you've never thought about going back to the Bronx? Even though you lived there for sixteen years?"

Sandy considered the question, frowning slightly. "Sure, I've thought about going back. I've even done it a few times. But just to visit. That's not my home anymore." He sat back on his heels, waiting to continue until Ryan looked up and met his eyes. "Sometimes we find our true homes—even our real families--a little later in life, kid. We don't always belong where we grew up."

"We don't?" Ryan swallowed, keeping his eye downcast. "You really believe that, Sandy?"

"I'm sure of it . . . Hey, don't be stingy with the wax, Ryan. There's plenty more in the can. You need more right there, in the middle."

"Okay . . . ." Obediently, Ryan began to recoat his board. "So, Sandy, I was wondering, why doesn't Seth surf with you? I mean, he's comfortable with water—he sails. And he's always on his skateboard, so he's got the balance for it. Surfing seems like, I don't know, something he would enjoy."

Sandy pushed his hair off his face, squinting into the rising sun. "You'd think so, wouldn't you? And believe me, kid, I tried. When Seth was eleven, I finally got him down here—no easy task at 6 a.m., by the way. Because back then, getting that boy up before nine o'clock? Practically impossible."

"Yeah?" Ryan grinned ruefully, thinking about all the mornings when Seth woke him before a single sliver of light had splintered the sky. "Wish he hadn't outgrown that . . . So, what happened when he tried it?"

"He was doing great," Sandy recalled. "I showed him the basics, we practiced, he caught a wave, and he looked terrific out there, like a natural—but then he wiped out and it was all over."

"Yeah? Why? Did the board hit him or something?"

Sandy shook his head sadly. "He swallowed a fish."

"He—what? He swallowed a fish?" Ryan's eyes widened and he choked back a snort of laughter. "Seth—swallowed a fish?"

"Well, he said he did," Sandy explained. "He claimed he could feel it swimming in his stomach. For two weeks, he slept sitting up in a chair. Seth told us that if he laid down, the fish would swim up his throat and he'd wake up with it in his mouth." Sandy sighed, although his eyes were dancing. "I could never get him back on a surfboard after that."

"A fish. Swimming up his throat into his mouth. God, that is too—Wait. Sandy?" Abruptly, Ryan stopped chuckling and licked his lips. "That didn't really happen, though. It's just a Seth Cohen myth, right? I mean, if I wipe out this morning, there's no chance I'm going to swallow a fish, is there?"

"Guess we'll just have to wait and see, kid." Sandy grinned playfully and slung an arm around Ryan's shoulders. "You do like sushi though, don't you?"

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"Now see, this is the way to start the day, Ryan," Sandy proclaimed as they ambled into the Cohen kitchen. "Fresh air, some exercise to get the blood moving, a bagel, a good cup of coffee, and—" He paused to pull Kirsten close. "A good morning kiss from a beautiful woman."

Ryan grinned. He poured himself a bowl of dry cereal, grabbed a mug, and was headed toward the counter when Kirsten stopped him.

"You forgot the last item on the list, surfer boy," she teased. She brushed a kiss on his cheek as Ryan ducked down and then ran her fingers across his chin, frowning. "Sweetie, didn't you put on sunscreen? You're going to burn."

Ryan touched his skin, wincing slightly. "Oh yeah. Forgot. It was six in the morning," he explained as he sat down at the counter. "Hey, Seth."

Seth rustled the newspaper he was hiding behind, but made no other greeting.

"Sandy," Kirsten scolded, "why didn't you remind Ryan to put on sunscreen?"

Sandy shrugged. "Forgot. It was six in the morning," he parroted. "We'll remember next time though, right, kid?"

"Okay, whoa now!" Seth protested. He slammed the newspaper down, staring accusingly from his father to Ryan. "What is this 'next time' business, Dad? Ryan? This was a one-shot, wasn't it, dude? You're not going to go surfing again."

Ryan popped a Lucky Charm in his mouth and chewed thoughtfully. "I might," he confessed. "I mean, if Sandy doesn't mind putting up with a novice. It was sort of . . ." He darted a glance at Sandy, gave a crooked smile and finished quietly, "It was nice."

"Oh no. No, no, and no. This? This is so not acceptable," Seth declared. "Come on, buddy, what about our routine? Seth-Ryan time? Do you know I went out to the pool house this morning, all ready to map out my day with you, and the place was empty?"

"Of course it was empty. You knew I was going surfing with your dad, Seth."

"I forgot! You forgot sunscreen, I forgot you were going out . . . You see how wrong this all is? Now my GP for today is ruined, thank you very much, RA," Seth pouted. "And you too, SC." His lower lip jutted out, but at the sight of his father's raised eyebrows Seth pulled it in quickly.

Kirsten and Sandy exchanged amused looks over Seth's head. "He's your son," Kirsten said pointedly.

"I know, I know," Sandy sighed. "You don't have to rub it in." He put his hand on Seth's shoulder. "Son, if Ryan wants to keep going surfing, you could always join us. Since you're up so early anyway . . ."

Seth choked on a mouthful of coffee. "Don't even," he warned. "That subject is so closed. Ryan, you're just humoring, Dad, right? You can't tell me that you really enjoyed the whole waves-spitting-at-you experience."

"Hmm." Ryan pursed his lips, considering. "I didn't enjoy getting up at six o'clock. But then," he pointed out meaningfully, "I never do. And yet somehow, I never get to sleep in anyway. On the other hand, I did enjoy being outside. And the exercise. And the company."

Seth shook his head in despair.

"Swallowing salt water, though," Ryan recalled. "That was no fun." He waited until Seth looked up hopefully before adding with a wicked grin, "But I guess it was better than swallowing a fish. A slippery, scaly, squirmy fish that would swim around and around in my stomach . . ."

"Dad!" Seth yelped. "You told! Please say you didn't spill the whole sleeping . . . throat . . . mouth . . . much panic and insomnia story."

"It slipped out," Sandy claimed, adroitly catching the bagel Seth threw at him. "Sorry about that, son. Okay, Ryan—we've got to get dressed if we're going to drop Seth at school."

Ryan grabbed a handful of dry cereal and headed for the door. "Be ready in ten . . . Hey, Sandy," he suggested, glancing mischievously over his shoulder. "Maybe you should sing songs from **_The Little Mermaid _**while Seth is in the car."

"You're not funny, Snoopy!" Seth yelled. Ryan didn't turn around, but he scratched the side of his head with his middle finger slowly and deliberately as he went out. "And I saw that!"

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"Damn," Seth muttered, as Ryan reentered the kitchen, showered, dressed, and finger-combing his wet hair.

Kirsten smiled sweetly and tapped off the oven timer. "Eight and a half minutes. Pay up, Seth."

Seth dug into his back pocket, pulled out his wallet and reluctantly counted five singles into his mother's outstretched hand.

"Dude," Ryan laughed. "You never learn."

"Yeah, well, you'll be late one of these days," Seth predicted sourly. "Anyway, your hair's not dry. That should add two minutes to your time. At least."

Ryan shrugged. "Your dad said dressed. I'm dressed. There was no mention of dry hair." He shook his head vigorously, splattering stray drops onto Seth's shoulders. "Yeah, though, that does feel better."

"Hey, come on!" Seth protested, flicking the water off his vest. "You know, just for the record, this Comedian Ryan? Does not amuse. Stick with what works for you, dude. The brooding. The angst. The sideways glares. The silent threats . . . Yeah, see, like that one there." Seth took a few hasty steps backwards and slid behind Kirsten. "I think I'll just wait over here for Dad."

"Actually, Seth, don't you need to get the . . . um . . .?" Kirsten prompted vaguely, gesturing to the living room.

"What? Oh, right. The um." Seth bobbed his head and backed out of the kitchen, keeping a watchful eye on Ryan the whole time.

Ryan's brows furrowed. "The . . . um?" he echoed suspiciously.

"Oh, just a little something, that's all." Kirsten swept the damp hair back off Ryan's forehead. "Better," she said. "I like to be able to see your face."

"Is this all right? What I'm wearing?" Ryan asked, indicating his dark jeans and sweater. "I mean, Sandy said that I didn't have to wear a suit, but . . ." His mouth twisted into a self-conscious grimace. "I don't want to embarrass him or anything."

"You look fine," Kirsten promised. "And you could never embarrass Sandy. Now the other way around . . ." She raised her eyebrows meaningfully, and Ryan laughed, then shushed himself as Sandy came in..

"Good," Sandy declared, adjusting his tie and nodding with approval at Ryan. "You're all ready. Where's Seth?"

"Right here." Seth stepped back into the kitchen, holding something behind his back. "And Ryan's not quite ready. You need your school bag, right, dude?"

Ryan glanced around in confusion. "Yeah. And it should be on the table where I left it. Seth . . . do you have my bag?"

Seth shook his head. "No, bro, no, I don't," he replied. "Because today you are not Ryan Atwood, aka Kid Chino, Harbor High senior and sometime superhero. Today you are the associate of Mr. Sanford Cohen, Esquire. So today instead of carrying your school bag, you, my good man, will be carrying . . . This! Ta da!"

With a flourish, Seth produced a briefcase, waving it in front of Ryan's face.

Ryan's eyes widened. "That? I'm supposed to carry that?"

"Hey, my old briefcase," Sandy observed. He took it from Seth and stroked the leather affectionately. "Nice touch, son . . ." Giving it a final, nostalgic pat, he handed it to Ryan. "Here you go, kid."

"Oh . . . kay," Ryan said doubtfully. "I mean, if you want me to use it. Is my stuff in here, Seth?"

"Everything that you'll need today," Seth affirmed. "Laptop. Paper, Pens. Cell phone." He lowered his voice and whispered conspiratorially. "But don't worry, Ryan. I didn't put in any of your . . . special things. You know—the stuff you wouldn't want Dad to see."

"Seth!" Ryan's cheeks flamed. "Sandy—Kirsten . . . I swear. I don't have any special things. . . Shit, Seth," he growled. "Come on. Tell them."

Seth nodded solemnly. "Right. No special things at all." He smiled and put a finger to his lips. "You just stick with that story, Ryan. People will believe you. Sure they will."

Kirsten laughed and swatted Seth playfully. "Stop teasing, sweetie. You're making Ryan blush."

"Yeah? I thought that was sunburn." Seth danced away as Ryan swung the briefcase in his direction. "Hey, careful there, guy," he warned. "You don't want to bruise the leather. That's a relic. It dates back to Dad's days in the P.D.'s office."

"Really?" Ryan looked down at the briefcase with sudden respect, running his fingers reverently over the clasp. "The P.D.'s office, huh?"

Sandy watched him for a moment, his expression thoughtful and fond. "You know, you look good with it, kid," he said quietly. "Tell you what. Why don't you keep that? You don't have to use it, but I'd like for you to have it."

"Yeah? You would?" Ryan's smile started in his eyes and warmed his whole body. He hefted the briefcase experimentally, and adjusted his grip. "Thanks, Sandy. That's just . . . I'll take good care of it. Thanks."

Kirsten rubbed his arm affectionately. "Now, if you were wearing a suit, sweetie? You'd look just like a lawyer."

"Hmm. Ryan Atwood, Attorney-at-Law," Seth intoned thoughtfully. "Right. There's an appropriate career choice. I can hear his opening argument now: 'Ladies and gentlemen of the jury. My client is innocent. I'll prove it. Thank you.'"

"Hey!" Ryan protested. "That says it all, right? People appreciate it if you don't waste their time with meaningless words, Seth."

"Court stenographers would love you, dude." Seth picked up his schoolbag and grinned smugly as he started for the door. Suddenly he swiveled around, scowling. "Wait, wait now. That 'waste their time' comment? 'Meaningless words'? That was directed at me right?" he demanded. "Okay now, Ryan? I am officially offended. And just for that, I'm not going to speak to you from the time I get to school till the time I come home . . ."

"Coincidentally, the exact time that I'll be with your dad so you can't speak to me."

"Yeah," Seth conceded. "But no phone calls either, Ryan. Think about it. You'll get bored, you'll want something to break the monotony, some Seth-style entertainment, so what will you do? You'll call me. And I? Will not answer. Nope. Not a chance."

"You're not allowed to take or make cell phone calls in class, Seth."

"So not the point, dude! You mock, but I'm telling you, I shall be incommunicado. Mute. Quiet as the Sphinx. You will not get a word out of me . . ."

"Yeah? Could that maybe start now?" Ryan pushed Seth forcibly out the door, shaking his head as Seth's voice trailed on, making more threats of absolute silence.

Sandy gave Kirsten a quick, fervent kiss. "Our kids," he commented wryly. "Gotta love them."

"Yes, we do," Kirsten laughed. She held his hand and walked with him to the door. "Sandy, I hope you and Ryan . . . well, I just hope you have a really good day together." There was a degree of urgency in her tone. "Because spending time alone with you like this? I think it's more than just an assignment or a day out of school for him. It means a lot to Ryan."

Sandy nodded and kissed Kirsten again. "I know," he agreed. "It means a lot to me too."

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

_Thanks so much for all the generous reviews. And thanks to Schwartz and company for the loan of the characters._

**In His Shadow**

**Part 2: The Morning**

"Okay, son. Here you go, " Sandy announced, pulling to a stop in front of Harbor. "Have a great day at school."

Ryan waved an indolent hand out the window as Seth tumbled from the backseat, dropping his bag and two loose CDs in the process. "Yeah, Seth," he echoed innocently, "Have a great day at school."

Seth opened his mouth to unleash a flippant retort, but at the last minute he settled for a scowl and turned to his father instead. "Goodbye, Dad," he said, stressing the second word. "And please note, I did not reply to that smug individual to whom I am pointedly not speaking because I am pointedly not speaking to him. Although if I were, my rapier wit would cut him off at the knees. And you can feel free to tell him so."

Sandy grinned, shook his head fondly, and put the car into gear.

"Dad!" Seth raised his eyebrows, cocking his head in Ryan's direction. "Tell. Him. So," he hissed.

"Oh. Right." Sandy tapped Ryan on the shoulder. "Kid? Seth says that he's not speaking to you. But if he were . . ."

"Yeah, yeah. Rapier wit, cut off at the knees. Got it . . . Bye, Seth," Ryan called, as Sandy pulled out of the parking lot. "Enjoy your classes today. Especially Dr. Herick's."

Seth's indignant protests, all carefully addressed to his father, followed the car all the way to the street.

"You know Sandy," Ryan observed as he settled back in his seat. "This not-speaking thing? Seth does it really loudly, doesn't he?"

Sandy chuckled in agreement. "It's a gift," he said ruefully. "You should have heard Seth not speak to Kirsten and me once. He was thirteen and we refused to build him a skateboard ramp that he wanted."

"Yeah? Did you give in?"

"Do you see a skateboard ramp at the house? No . . . but Seth did strain his voice trying to persuade us. Not that he spoke to us directly, you understand. He just spoke to Rosa, Caleb, Captain Oats . . . occasionally the furniture. Wound up with laryngitis."

"Shit, not really? Seth with laryngitis?"

"He had no voice at all for three days," Sandy recalled nostalgically.

"Three whole days?" Ryan sighed. "Man, how sweet was that?"

"Very sweet," Sandy confirmed. "And you'd think that would have taught Seth a lesson, but apparently not. When he couldn't talk, he just wrote lists. Left them all over the house. He must have come up with at least five dozen reasons why he should have his own skateboard ramp."

Sandy laughed at the memory, glancing over at the passenger seat, but although Ryan smiled absently, he seemed to have stopped listening. He had pulled the briefcase off the floor and was balancing it on his knees, tracing the letters of the inscribed nameplate with his index finger.

"You know," Sandy mused, "Kirsten surprised me with that the day I passed the bar. At the time, it probably cost more than our living room couch. But, God, it made me feel great. Every time I looked at it, it reminded me of the faith she had in me."

Ryan's eyes darted anxiously to Sandy's profile. "Really? You know if you changed your mind and want to keep the briefcase after all, that's cool." He hesitated, biting his lip. "Or maybe you should give it to Seth. I mean, since it was a present from Kirsten . . ."

"No, Ryan," Sandy said gently. "I want you to have the briefcase. But I was thinking that we should have the nameplate replaced, so that it officially belongs to Ryan Atwood."

Ryan covered the inscription protectively and his lips curved into a shy half-smile. "Actually, Sandy . . . I'd rather keep it just the way it is," he admitted. "If you don't mind, I mean."

"I don't mind at all," Sandy assured him. "But I want you to know, you can blame Kirsten for that froufrou lettering. I would have picked something more manly myself."

"Yeah, it is kind of . . . fancy," Ryan admitted. "But if Kirsten liked it . . ."

Sandy lowered his voice confidentially, even though there was no one around to hear. "Tell you what you can do, Ryan. Just keep the nameplate side facing you. That's what I did . . . So, kid, want to listen to some music?"

"Are you going to sing?" Ryan asked in alarm.

Sandy's brows furrowed in a mock-scowl. "Hey! A little respect, if you don't mind. I was just planning to play the radio. But of course, if either one of us wants to sing along . . . "

"One of us won't," Ryan said firmly. He squinted out the window as Sandy searched for a classic rock station. "Man. I should have grabbed my sunglasses. Do you have an extra pair in the glove compartment?"

"I don't think so . . . but check your briefcase," Sandy suggested. "Maybe Seth put your sunglasses in there when he was packing the rest of your stuff."

Ryan snorted. "What? Seth remember something practical?" He groped inside the zipper compartment, fishing out a giant paperclip, a cardboard key labeled "Men's Room," a bumper sticker that proclaimed, "Lawyers are People Too (But you'll never be able to prove it in court)," and finally his sunglasses. "Yes!" Ryan crowed in surprised triumph. He was about to close the briefcase when his gaze fell on a small pack of cards. "What the hell?" he murmured suspiciously.

Sandy kept his eyes on the road, but he was already grinning. "What is it, Ryan?"

"Business cards," Ryan announced, gingerly peeling off a post-it note that read "So sue me. Seth." "Your son made me business cards . . . 'Ryan Atwood, Fake-Attorney-For-A-Day. Cheap. I charge by the word. Call 1-800-KID CHINO.' God, Sandy!" he groaned, covering his face. "Only Seth."

"Only Seth," Sandy agreed, but his smile dimmed a little, remembering.

Two days ago, while Ryan was studying in the pool house, Seth had bounced into the kitchen where his parents were having coffee.

"Lady and gentleman!" he announced proudly. "Okay, that's so not impressive when it's not plural, but anyway, I give you . . . wait for it now . . . the prototype for the official Ryan Atwood business card! Ta da!" He had handed the sketch to Kirsten first, but the moment she looked at it, she had paled visibly, shaking her head.

"Sweetie," she breathed. "No. You can't give this to Ryan."

"No?" Seth's pleased smirk dissolved into stunned disappointment. "Why not, Mom?"

Curious, Sandy had joined his son behind Kirsten's chair, studying the drawing over her shoulder. Its wording was the same as the business cards Ryan held now, but on one side Seth had sketched Kid Chino, holding the scales of justice in one hand, with the other curled into a large-knuckled fist, cocked and ready to throw. Above the cartoon a speech bubble declared, "Satisfaction guaranteed. If the right hand doesn't get it, the left hand will."

"What's wrong?" Seth persisted. "It's funny, right?"

Sandy had taken the paper from Kirsten and folded it up. "Trey," he said quietly.

"Trey?" Seth stared at his father, startled, before his eyes darkened with horror. He grabbed the paper, shredding it violently. "Shit, shit, shit. Trey . . . God, is there a lighter around here? I've got to burn this. Mom—Dad," he stammered, "I never thought . . . I would never . . . I wouldn't do that to Ryan."

Kirsten rubbed his cheek soothingly. "Of course you wouldn't, sweetie," she murmured. "You just forgot for a minute. You're allowed to forget."

"No," Seth argued. "I'm not. Not if it means doing something like this. God!" He shuddered. "If Ryan had seen this . . ."

"But he didn't. He won't. Redo the business cards, son," Sandy urged. "It's a funny idea and Ryan will enjoy it. Just leave out the . . . fists of justice reference, okay?"

Now, Sandy glanced over with satisfaction as Ryan shuffled the business cards, chuckling softly.

"1-800-KID-CHINO," he muttered, rolling his eyes. "Doesn't Seth know he's got an extra digit in there? Although, I suppose 1-800-KID-CHIN does sound pretty stupid. But what am I supposed to do with these things anyway, Sandy? Seth made twenty of them."

Sandy shrugged. "I don't know. But a lawyer does need business cards." He took one hand off the wheel, reached over, and squeezed Ryan's shoulder. "In my experience," he recalled meaningfully, "they've come in pretty handy."

"Yeah." Ryan's voice was thick with memory. "In my experience too . . ." With careful fingers, he tapped the cards into a neat stack and tucked them safely back into the briefcase. "So Sandy, what are we doing first today?"

"First," Sandy mused. "Let's see. First, I've got an appointment with a new client. An L. S. Boardman. We're supposed to meet at my office."

"Your office, huh? Cool. I've never been there. So what's the case? I mean, if you can tell me." Ryan frowned suddenly. "Actually, Sandy, I hadn't thought about that—the whole lawyer-client confidentiality thing. You want me to wait outside while you talk? Or, I don't know? Sharpen pencils in another room or something?"

"My pencils all have pretty sharp points, kid. Tell you what, why don't we just wait and see what happens," Sandy suggested. "Since it's our first meeting, this could just a general discussion, and the client might not mind you sitting in. That is, as long as you promise not to go blabbing everything that you hear."

Ryan pulled his sunglasses down and peered at Sandy over the top.

"Right," Sandy laughed. "Ryan, not Seth. No blabbing, guaranteed."

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Ryan stood with his hands clasped behind his back, reading the titles of the books lining the shelves in Sandy's office. They weren't all legal tomes, he noted with surprise--that is unless murder mysteries counted. And political satires. Ryan was about to slide out a copy of **_Bushwhacked_** when the doorbell rang.

"Sandy?" he called. "I think your appointment is here."

Sandy ducked out from the other room, phone pressed to his ear, saying irritably, "No, I'm not heading out there today. I rescheduled that meeting." He covered the mouthpiece and whispered, "Could you get it, kid? Just make the client comfortable. I'll be there in a minute."

"Oh-kay," Ryan agreed reluctantly. He chewed the inside of his cheek. Make the client comfortable. Right, he could do that—as long as Sandy wasn't on the phone more than another thirty seconds.

Pulling down the sleeves of his sweater—shit, he thought, maybe he should have worn a tie after all--Ryan took a deep breath. He opened the door, smiling politely, but the respectful greeting he planned died on his lips when he saw the person standing outside.

"Uh . . . hi," Ryan said uncertainly. The boy on the porch couldn't have been more than eleven even though, with his fiercely spiked hair, his lightning bolt earring, his ripped black t-shirt and baggy jeans, he was obviously aiming for an alienated eighteen at least. "Can I help you?"

The boy looked up, squinting, and wrinkled his nose. He appeared as confused as Ryan felt. "You Sanford Cohen?"

"No," Ryan replied, shaking his head. "But this is his office."

"Oh. Okay then."

As the boy pushed past him to come in, Ryan scanned the area outside. No adults in sight. Just a bike—a very expensive one—parked at the foot of the steps. He shrugged, keeping the door propped open just in case.

"Hey," he said casually. "I'm Ryan." He would have added, "Sit down," but the boy had already dropped his small backpack and was perched on the edge of the armchair. "So . . . you're here to see Sandy?"

The boy's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Who?"

"Sorry. I mean Sanford Cohen," Ryan amended. "'Cause, um, he has an appointment scheduled right now so you may have to wait. Unless?" He fished for the name and added doubtfully, "You're not L. S. Boardman, are you?"

"I'm Scott," the boy muttered, his defiant scowl daring Ryan to argue with him. "But yeah, my last name is Boardman."

Swallowing a grin, Ryan nodded, and leaned against the desk. "Scott," he repeated. "All right, cool. Would you like some . . ." He broke off as Sandy entered, eyebrows lifted in a slight question at the sight of the surly boy. "Hey, Sandy, this is Scott," Ryan explained. "Your new client."

If he was surprised, Sandy hid it completely. "Right on time. Excellent." He held out his hand and, when the boy made no move to take it, slid it discreetly into his pocket. "Good to meet you, Scott," he said, with a welcoming smile. "I'm Sanford Cohen. But please, call me Sandy. What can I do for you today?"

Scott knocked the toes of his combat boots together, sinking back in the chair and chewing his lip. His jaded façade seemed to have disappeared abruptly, leaving just a nervous little boy.

Sandy glanced at Ryan, who shrugged a helpless "I don't know."

"Scott, do you have a legal problem?" Sandy prompted gently.

"Yeah," Scott blurted. "I want to divorce my parents."

Ryan's head jerked up in shock, but Sandy's neutral expression never wavered.

"I see," he replied thoughtfully, as he loosened his tie. "Well, Scott you know, divorce is a pretty drastic move for anybody. It's not something you want to rush into."

"But I can do it, can't I?" Scott demanded, his voice rising sharply. "I mean you can make me legally not their son, right? I can pay you."

Ryan's eyes darkened as they darted from the boy's troubled face back to Sandy.

"Divorce is a . . . possibility," Sandy answered carefully. He took out a legal pad and sat down. "But you probably have a number of options, Scott—other things you can do. Why don't you tell me exactly what the problem is with your parents?"

Scott sucked in his lips and pounded his knuckles together. "Why? If I pay you, you have to do what I want, right?" he demanded sullenly. "Isn't that your job?"

"Well, yes," Sandy conceded. "If I'm your lawyer, I have to represent your best interests. But first I have to know what those are. Tell you what. I was just about to make some fresh lemonade." Ryan stared, astonished, and he added wryly, "That's right, I said fresh, smart guy. How you and Seth drink that canned dreck is beyond me . . . So, Scott, why don't I get us something to drink, and then we can talk."

The tiniest flicker of a smile crossed Scott's face. "I am pretty thirsty from riding my bike here," he admitted. "And I like lemonade. But not real, real, real sweet. 'Cause that's icky."

"Exactly what I always say. You're a man after my own heart, Scott. Easy on the sugar, it is," Sandy promised, heading to the kitchenette.

Giving Scott a hasty half-salute, Ryan followed Sandy. "I can get the drinks," he offered quietly. "That way you two can talk."

"Actually, kid, I'd like you to talk to Scott."

"Me?" Ryan's voice was incredulous. "Why?"

Sandy shook some lemons from a bag onto the counter and rummaged in a drawer for a knife. "Why not? You never know, this could be a job for Kid Chino, Attorney for a Day."

"But Sandy," Ryan objected, "he wants to divorce his parents. Maybe that means they're . . . " He gritted his teeth, and finished in a rough whisper. "Abusing him."

Sandy gave a tight nod. "It's possible, Ryan. Or the problem could be something else entirely. Whatever it is, I think Scott might feel better talking about it with you."

Ryan hesitated, unconvinced.

"Just give it a shot," Sandy urged. "Hey, I'm right here if you need me."

"Okay," Ryan agreed, although he still looked skeptical. "But hey, Ryan, not Seth, remember? How do I even start talking to this kid?"

Sandy laughed, tossing two boxes of cookies and a roll of paper towels to him. "Your ice-breaker, Mr. Atwood."

"Hey, Scott. Food!" Ryan announced as he returned to the office area. "I've got Double Stuff Oreos and Chips Ahoy. Choose, dude."

Scott screwed up his face, thinking. "What are you having?"

"Oreos," Ryan answered promptly. "Best. Cookies. Ever."

"Yeah? They're all right, I guess. Okay, I'll have some too."

"Excellent choice." Ryan tore open the package and placed it on the table between their chairs. Simultaneously they each reached for a cookie, twisting it open and scraping the filling off with their teeth. Ryan swallowed and wiped his mouth. He gestured toward the dragon on the boy's left forearm. "Nice tat," he observed.

Scott's wary expression brightened slightly. "You like it?" he asked.

"Absolutely." Ryan brushed crumbs off his fingers and leaned forward to inspect the design more closely. "It's awesome, man."

Scott studied his arm for a moment before speaking. "Do you have any tattoos, Ryan?"

"Me? Nah."

"How come? Are you, like, scared of needles or something?"

Ryan's gaze slid to the kitchenette where Sandy was watching, slicing lemons and smiling encouragement. Then he sat back and considered the question. "I don't like needles," he admitted. "But I wouldn't say I'm scared of them. It's more like I'm scared that I'd pick a design I'd wind up hating five years from now." He shrugged ruefully. "People change, you know? You don't want to be stuck with something 'cause you made the wrong decision."

Frowning, Scott put his cookie down and touched the lines of red fire erupting from the dragon's mouth.

"But hey," Ryan said hastily, "you don't have to worry about that. 'Cause your dragon? Beyond cool, dude."

Scott glanced at him, his face creased with thought.

"Ryan? Look, can I tell you something? And you won't laugh?"

"Laugh? Not a chance," Ryan promised.

Squirming forward, Scott leaned close and dropped his voice to a whisper. "It's not a real tattoo,"

Unconsciously, Ryan mirrored the sober respect he had seen when Sandy spoke to the boy. "It's not?"

"No. I drew it on myself," Scott confided. "With magic marker."

Ryan crouched next to Scott's chair and examined his arm. "Man, you drew that?" he said with honest admiration. "That is seriously amazing, Scott."

"Yeah? You don't think it's lame . . . I mean, you know, because it's not real?"

"Lame?" Ryan protested. "Are you kidding? It's incredible." He handed Scott another cookie and helped himself to one before going back to his seat. "So what do your parents say about the tattoo?"

Scott's face shuttered instantly. "Nothing," he mumbled. "They don't say anything about anything." He kicked the coffee table, making jump. "Not anything," he repeated viciously.

Ryan put a steadying hand on the table and glanced again at the kitchenette. Sandy was still watching, eyes soft with sympathy. "Go on, kid," he mouthed.

"Well, that sucks," Ryan declared. "Being ignored like that, I mean."

"Yeah. Totally."

For a moment, Ryan just watched as Scott played with his cookie, pulling it apart and slamming it back together again. "You're pretty pissed with them, huh?" he asked finally.

Scott's lips crimped. "Yeah. I'm pissed," he replied, pronouncing the word with grim satisfaction. "It's like they don't even know I'm alive, Ryan. They're always busy. Or gone. Or getting ready to go someplace. And they never take me."

"Are they gone now?" With apparent nonchalance, Ryan sketched a tic-tac-toe board on Sandy's legal pad. "Is that why you got to come here on a school day?" He marked an X in the middle square and slid the paper over to Scott.

"My dad's in Japan," Scott replied. "And my mom's going to meet him there next week, so she's all busy shopping for the trip. I told her we didn't have school today because of some teacher meeting. Doesn't matter. She doesn't care where I am, as long as I'm not in her way."

Ryan's jaw tightened, but he let Scott go on talking.

"They never want me around. So I might as well just divorce them, right? Then they don't even have to pretend like they care." Scott's pen kept circling the O he had drawn until it cut a small hole in the paper. "Shit!" he exclaimed. "I mean . . . sorry, Ryan."

"Nah, it's a stupid game anyway." Ryan picked up the paper and pen and added arrow points to each end of his X. "Hey, what do you think, Scott? It's my tattoo design."

"That?" Scott shook his head critically. "Man, Ryan, that's pretty lame."

"Hey!" Ryan objected. "I'll have you know that . . . that is . . . Okay, yeah, you're right." He balled up the paper and tossed it in the garbage. "That totally sucked. I should stick to my A game, huh? Leave the art work to experts like you."

"Ryan?" Scott asked suddenly. "Are you a lawyer too?"

Ryan grinned. "Me? A lawyer? Uh . . . no."

"Oh. Then are you going to be one?"

Ryan's smile widened as he remembered Seth's 'Atwood opening argument'. "I don't think so. No."

Scott frowned. "Well then, what are you doing here anyway?"

"Really?" Ryan lowered his voice confidentially. "I'm just watching Sandy work. And getting the day off school to do it."

"Cool!" Scott exclaimed. He relaxed into his chair, his legs sticking out in front of him. "Is Sandy your dad?"

Ryan bit his lower lip before he forced out a final, more reluctant denial. "No. He's not. But . . . he's like my dad, sort of." Immediately, his brain screamed a protest, and Ryan amended, "Actually, he's not like my dad. At all." Not quite under his breath he added, "Thank God."

Inside the kitchenette, Sandy stopped pouring lemonade and listened intently.

"I don't get it."

"Sandy's my legal guardian," Ryan explained, choosing his words carefully. "I live with him—well, with his whole family. Sandy is taking the place of my father."

"Oh." To Ryan's amazement, Scott nodded as if he understood perfectly. "Did you divorce your parents? Is that why you're living with other people?"

Shifting uncomfortably, Ryan looked over his shoulder, wondering what was taking Sandy so long. "Not really, Scott. My parents . . . they kind of divorced me, I guess."

"Oh," Scott said again. His eyes clouded, and he crumpled bits of cookie onto a paper towel. "Did that like . . . hurt your feelings or anything?"

"Yeah, it did," Ryan confessed. "It hurt my feelings a lot." Unsure what to say next, he rubbed the bridge of his nose, then sighed in relief when Sandy strolled into the office,

"Here we go!" Sandy announced, balancing a tray with three glasses.

"And you'll be happy to know this lemonade aced the Sandy Cohen taste test--not too tart, not too sweet. Sorry to keep you guys waiting. I squirted some juice in my eye—had to get it out." As he passed behind Ryan's chair, Sandy paused for a moment, cupping the back of his neck and gently ruffling his hair. "So, Scott. Ready to discuss your case?" he asked as he sat down and distributed the lemonade.

Scott drained half his glass before answering, his body tense again. "I guess."

"Okay then." Sandy took out his pen and poised it over his legal pad. "Let's get the basics down first. What's your full name, Scott?"

"Why?" Scott demanded, glowering.

"Can't conduct legal business without your legal name," Sandy explained.

"You'll laugh. Well, maybe not you, Sandy. But you will, Ryan."

Surprised, Ryan set down his glass and leaned forward. "No, I won't," he promised. When Scott still said nothing, he added, "Swear to God, dude. Go ahead. You can tell us."

"Leslie Scott Boardman. The Fourth," Scott muttered into his glass. "I hate it. It's a stupid name. And Leslie is the worst. It's a stupid girl's name."

Ryan shook his head sympathetically. "Oh, man. That does suck, Scott. Good thing you've got a decent middle name."

Scott turned to Sandy. "Don't you have a middle name you can use?" he asked earnestly. "I mean Sandy is a girls' name too."

Ryan choked and clapped a hand over his mouth. "Oops—sorry. I, um, swallowed a seed," he claimed, hiding a grin in his palm.

"Nope," Sandy told Scott mildly. "No middle name." Behind his legal pad, he cocked a playful, warning finger in Ryan's direction. "All right, Scott. Let's get down to business. Why don't you tell me exactly why you want to divorce your parents?"

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The moment Scott disappeared into the bathroom, Sandy turned to Ryan. "Swallowed a seed?" he demanded.

Ryan held up both hands in surrender. "Sorry!" he sputtered, laughing again. "But come on! You have to admit, Sandy is a girl's name."

"The name is Sanford, kid," Sandy growled with mock-fury. "And if I hear any girly-name jokes around the house--"

"Hey, no, not from me!"

"Or from Seth," Sandy cautioned.

"Aw." Ryan slumped in his seat, apparently disappointed. "Not even from Seth?"

"Especially not from Seth," Sandy clarified. "But if he does, I'll know exactly where he got the idea."

Ryan nodded, his face a mask of innocence. "Okay, got it. Sensitive subject, no jokes. But I do have one question," he said ingenuously. "How much mail do you get addressed to Mrs. Sandy Cohen?" He ducked, smirking, as Sandy lobbed an Oreo at him. Ryan caught the cookie and twisted it open. He bit into it, chewing slowly as his face grew serious again. "Sandy, what are you going to do about Scott?" he asked. "I mean, this divorcing your parents deal--can kids his age really do that?"

Sandy sipped his lemonade thoughtfully. "Yes, they can, under special circumstances. It doesn't happen often, of course. But I don't think that's what Scott really wants to do anyway."

"No, he doesn't." Ryan snapped the remainder of his cookie in half and flung both pieces down in disgust. His voice was gruff with emotion. "Shit, he's just a regular kid. All he wants is for his parents to give a damn about him."

"And instead they just give him things," Sandy said, his mouth tightening with distaste. "I looked up some background information about the Boardmans while you guys were talking. They've got enough money to make Caleb feel poor. Private island, villa in Tuscany, collection of classic cars. But Scott told the truth. His parents spend almost all their time traveling."

"So he's stuck on his own," Ryan concluded.

Sandy nodded, sighing. "Pretty much. There are housekeepers. Nannies. I'm sure the parents feel like they do right by the boy, but . . ."

"If they do, they're fucking idiots," Ryan muttered fiercely. His eyes darted over to Sandy, and he flushed, biting his lip. "Sorry. It's just . . . Not my business. Sorry." Hastily, he closed the cookie bags and began to clear the crumb-laden paper towels. "Can you help him, Sandy?"

"I'm certainly going to try," Sandy replied. "Scott's mom isn't scheduled to leave until next week. I'll set up a meeting with her. Maybe a conference with her son's lawyer will convince her that she and her husband have important matters to attend to right here in California."

Ryan rubbed his knuckles pensively against his teeth. "What if she doesn't listen?"

"If she doesn't, then we'll take the next step," Sandy replied grimly. "Kids like Scott--"

He broke off as Scott emerged from the bathroom, inspecting his tattoo anxiously. "I think it's fading, Ryan. Look."

"Hmm." Ryan examined Scott's arm from several different angles. "Yep. A little, I think."

"But I used permanent marker. That's supposed to last forever, right?"

Ryan sucked in his lower lip and closed his eyes for a moment. "Yeah," he answered finally. "It's supposed to. But sometimes things that you expect to be permanent . . . well, they aren't really. They just disappear." His eyes briefly sought Sandy's, and reassurance. Then he studied the tattoo again. "It's not so bad, though, Scott. You can always touch it up, right? Go over the lines again. Or . . ."

"Or what Ryan?" Scott prompted.

"Or you could wash it off and draw a whole new design. An eagle maybe. Or a tiger."

Scott narrowed his eyes, considering. "Yeah, a tiger might be cool. You know, for a change." He picked up his backpack and started toward the door, then stopped abruptly. "Um . . . Sandy, I have to pay you, right? So you're really my lawyer?"

"That's right," Sandy confirmed. "Before I can begin working on your case, I need a retainer from you, Scott."

"Yeah, so, um . . ." Scott's mouth twisted uncertainly. "What does that mean?"

"You need to give me—oh, let's say, one dollar. Would that be okay?"

Scott snorted, some of his original attitude reasserting itself. "That's cheap! I could pay you lots more than that."

"Well, of course, that's not my whole fee," Sandy explained, masking a smile. "We'll talk serious money as the case goes on. Scott, it was very nice meeting you."

This time, when Sandy held out his hand, Scott shook it. "You too," he replied. "And I'm really sorry you don't have a middle name."

Behind them, Ryan choked. He pointed to his throat, coughing. "Seed," he gasped. "Still stuck, I think . . . I'll be right back, Sandy."

Looping an arm around Scott's shoulders, Ryan walked him outside. Once they were on the porch, he crouched down, putting himself at eye level. "Here," he said seriously. "I want you to take this."

Scott looked at the card Ryan pressed into his hand. "What is it?"

"It's . . . well, it's my business card. The whole thing's a joke, really, so don't use that 1-800 number. I'll explain it to you sometime. But see, I wrote my real number below it."

"So . . . I can call you, Ryan?" Scott asked. "Like we're friends or something?"

"We are friends," Ryan assured him. "And you can call me anytime."

"Cool!" Scott breathed. "Thanks."

Ryan watched as he rode away, waiting until Scott gave a final wave before he turned to go back inside. Sandy was standing in the doorway, smiling proudly.

"Nice job, Kid Chino," he said, nodding his approval. "Now get in here. Cohen and Atwood have got more work to do."

TBC

My apologies (or maybe thanks?) to **cheekymice**, for the "Come Undone" Ryan-Danny echoes in the final scene between Ryan and Scott. I can't pretend that I didn't remember Ryan giving Danny Sandy's card--hangs head in shame—but I just couldn't resist having him do almost the same thing here.


	3. Chapter 3

Part 3: Lunch 

"Next question. Take your time, and remember, you are still under oath."

"Go ahead, counselor. I'm ready."

"Why did you become a lawyer, Mr. Cohen?"

Sandy flashed a fond smile in Ryan's direction, before resuming a solemn expression. "I was a B," he said gravely.

"You were a . . . B?" Ryan echoed. With a dubious frown, he lifted his pencil from the legal pad where he was taking notes and tapped its eraser against his cheek. "Could you explain that, Mr. Cohen? I assume you don't mean a B as in, oh, 'I had to break up with her. The B cheated on me.'"

Sandy raised his impressive eyebrows until they disappeared under his hair. "Uh, no, Mr. Atwood. I was a multiple choice B," he declared obliquely. He merged into the exit lane of the highway, swallowing laughter when he glimpsed Ryan's mystified frown.

"A multiple choice B? Perhaps you didn't understand the question, Mr. Cohen. Would you like me to repeat it?" Ryan offered.

"Not at all," Sandy answered blithely. "You want to know why I became a lawyer. Well, when I was in fifth grade, my teacher went around the room asking all of us what we wanted to be when we grew up. I guess we weren't very imaginative kids. We really just came up with five choices, and they settled into a pretty regular pattern: A) a doctor, B), a lawyer, C) an athlete, D) a singer, E) a movie star. The girl who sat in front of me said she wanted to be a doctor, so of course, I had to say the next thing, which was—"

"A lawyer," Ryan concluded.

"Right. Answer B."

Grinning, Ryan doodled a giant B on his pad. "Yeah, but really, Sandy . . . I mean, Mr. Cohen," he amended, resuming the whole cross-examination act. "Why did you want to go into law?"

"Hmm." Sandy waited out a traffic light, pondering, before he responded. "A number of reasons, Ryan. My mom was a social worker—you know that. Well, that means she had a lot of contact with the legal system. She had to find laws that would benefit her clients and help them deal with the ones that threatened to tear their lives apart. You should have heard her then. She would get so frustrated." His mouth twisted ironically. "Okay, 'frustrated' isn't the right word. This is my mother we're talking about; she would get mad as hell."

"Yeah," Ryan smirked as he doodled comic strip symbols for profanity. "I can picture that . . . I mean, go on, Mr. Cohen."

Clearing his throat portentously, Sandy nodded. "Of course, Mr. Atwood. Well, hearing my mother talk about the legal problems her clients faced . . . it made me want to get involved, figure out how to make the system work better for people." His eyes danced, and he admitted, "Plus, of course, lawyers get to talk a lot. And I love to talk."

"You do? Really?" Ryan queried, completely deadpan.

Sandy furrowed his brows in mock-indignation.

"Sorry, Mr. Cohen. I withdraw the question. Please continue."

Sandy paused, his expression growing thoughtful. "Justice," he said finally. "I believe in the concept, impossible as it seems to be sometimes. And I wanted to do something with my life that revolved around truth and fair treatment." His shoulders lifted in a wry shrug. "Not that most people associate lawyers with truth and fair treatment."

"Most people don't know lawyers like you."

Ryan's words rang with fervent emphasis. He dipped his head sideways, embarrassed by the display of emotion, but Sandy smiled gratefully. "Thank you, kid. That means a lot to me . . . So, how about you? Why do you want to become an architect?"

"Hey!" Ryan protested. "I thought I was the one asking the questions here."

Laughing, Sandy reached over and ruffled Ryan's hair. "Indulge me," he urged. "Pretend court's in recess."

"This is completely out of order," Ryan grumbled, but then he grinned back. "Okay, let's see. I guess it's the whole idea of structure, of figuring out what people need and then building them something solid. Something that will last, you know?"

Sandy nodded sagely. "I think so. Any other reason?"

Leaning back against his seat, Ryan mulled the question. "I don't know how to explain it. It's just . . . everything has to fit together in a well-designed building," he mused slowly. "I like that, the way every piece supports every other one."

Sandy's quick glance was reflective and appraising. "Be nice if everything in life worked that way," he observed.

"Yeah, it would," Ryan agreed, smothering a tiny sigh. He rolled his pencil over his legal pad pensively. "Sandy, could I ask you another question?"

"Sure, kid. Anything."

Ryan averted his eyes. "I was wondering . . " he began uncertainly, but then he shook his head with sudden decision and concluded, "I was wondering, as long as court's in recess, any chance we'll be eating soon? I'm starved."

"Starved?" Sandy scoffed. He matched Ryan's casual tone, even as he frowned slightly, filing away his confusion at the abrupt change of subject. "How are you even hungry? You ate half a bag of double-stuff Oreos. But yeah, lunch is our next stop."

"The Oreos were a snack. Besides, Scott ate some of them," Ryan maintained. "You did too."

"Hey! I only had one!"

Sandy's protest was cut short by the percussive beat of "Born to Be Wild," thrumming inside his briefcase. Beside him, Ryan pushed down his sunglasses and peered quizzically over their rims.

"Ah, **_Easy Rider_**," Sandy explained, smiling nostalgically. "Great movie, Ryan. Two young men on a drug-fueled motorcycle odyssey across America. We'll rent it sometime . . . Or," he amended, "come to think of it, maybe we won't. Can you check that for me, kid?" He nodded toward his briefcase.

Ryan dug out the phone, flipping open the display. "It's Seth." One corner of his mouth lifted slyly. "Want me to answer it for you?"

"You think Seth will talk to you?"

"Nope," Ryan admitted impishly. "But he'll talk to you." He cocked his head, tapping the handset and Sandy wiggled his eyebrows in response.

"Go for it," he urged.

Ryan simultaneously deepened his voice and began scratching the phone lightly as he turned it on. "Seth Ezekiel," he snapped, "why are you calling from school? It better not be just so I can remind Ryan that you're not speaking to him." He switched on the speaker so Sandy could hear.

"What?" Seth squawked. "Would I . . . I mean, um, no Dad, of course I'm not."

"Well then, what?"

"I just . . . okay, see, I thought . . . I mean, I was wondering . . ."

"Seth!" Ryan barked, doing his best angry-Sandy impersonation. "Ryan and I are busy here. And aren't you supposed to be in Modern History right about now?"

"Yeah, only no, it just let out. I'm on my way to French, so I figured I'd just check in and see how. . . wait a minute. Since when do you know my schedule, Dad? Okay, no, you don't . . . unless . . ." Seth's voice trailed off suspiciously.

"Unless what?" Ryan prompted in his own voice.

Seth yelped. "Ryan?" he demanded.

"Kid Chino, at your service. Oh, and by the way, Seth, you put too many digits in that telephone number. But we'll talk about it later—I mean, since you're speaking to me again."

"I am not! I mean, yeah I am, but not on purpose! This . . . this is totally unfair, dude!" Seth sputtered. "I think it's even illegal. There's got to be some law against impersonating a father! It's . . . it's . . . it's entrapment, that's what it is."

"Yeah, it is, isn't it?" Ryan agreed airily. "Tell you what, Seth. If you decide to sue me, I can recommend a good lawyer. Oh wait, no I can't. He's on my side."

Seth's indignation reverberated through the car. "Dad knows you did this?"

"He had my blessing, son," Sandy called. "Not too shabby an impression either. Ryan really had you going, didn't he?"

"He did not! Or well, he did, but . . . okay, now this . . . you both . . . This is so, so wrong . . . and also not funny, by the way. And, and . . . and I'm telling Mom!" Seth warned. He babbled a few more incoherent threats, and then there was the unmistakable click of a phone slamming shut.

Ryan bent down to replace the phone in Sandy's briefcase. "Guess Seth had to get to class," he said, shaking his head in mock-sorrow. "Because just hanging up on us . . . that would be rude."

"Perfect timing, though," Sandy announced, chuckling, as he pulled into a parking lot. "Time for lunch, kid."

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Behind Sandy's back, Ryan surveyed their surroundings with obvious dismay. He heard the hostess murmur, "Your table is ready, Mr. Cohen. Right this way, please," but he couldn't quite bring himself to follow.

Sandy had already taken four steps before he realized that he was alone. He turned, his eyebrows forming a perplexed V, and beckoned. "Hey, kid? You coming?"

Reluctantly, Ryan nodded and trailed Sandy to a secluded table in the corner.

With a bob of her head and a polite, "Your server will be with you in just a moment," the hostess disappeared.

"Sandy," Ryan whispered as he sat down. "The country club? I thought we'd eat at, I don't know, In-n-Out or something. This . . . I guess I didn't think this place was your style."

"Ah, but at least you admit I have style, kid," Sandy teased. He waited for a laugh or deadpan retort, but Ryan just shrugged and rubbed an invisible spot on his salad fork.

Sensing his discomfort, Sandy scanned the restaurant. He allowed himself to really see everything: the lavish décor, the aloof appearance of the other patrons, the milky china and heavy silverware, all the blatant signs of exclusivity. Ryan's eyes were carefully hooded when Sandy turned back to him, but it was clear exactly what he was feeling: disappointment. Maybe even a degree of disillusionment. The kid from Chino, Sandy realized, thought he was spending his day with a crusading lawyer from the Bronx. Neither of them belonged in this pretentious, overpriced haven for Newport's elite.

Tapping the table to get Ryan's attention, Sandy smiled apologetically. "You know what, buddy? You're right," he admitted. "In-n-Out is more my speed. This place, on the other hand? I really only come here under duress."

Ryan flushed, chewing his lip. "Sorry, Sandy," he mumbled. "I shouldn't have criticized you. I mean, if you like to eat here, that's . . . well, it's cool. Besides, you'd think I'd be used to this place by now. It shouldn't bother me anymore."

"Why not?" Sandy asked mildly. "It still bothers me most of the time. Actually, to be honest? I'm glad it does. Keeps me grounded, you know?"

"Yeah?" Ryan's smile flickered and he relaxed, visibly relieved.

"Yeah," Sandy confirmed. "And by the way, kid, for the record? You're allowed to have opinions. And to express them."

Ryan took a deep breath. "So then . . . maybe we can have lunch somewhere else?" he suggested hopefully.

Sandy shook his head, sighing. "Sorry, Ryan," he replied. "You caught me on a bad day. I have to meet someone here at 1:15, and considering what traffic is like, I figured we better just eat here too." His face brightened and he gave a conciliatory grin. "But, hey, I'm pretty sure they serve burgers. Steakburgers, though, probably. Or maybe swordfish-burgers. You know, just so we don't confuse the place with Mickey D's."

"Yeah well, at least I'd be dressed right for Mickey D's." Ryan ran a hand through his hair self-consciously. "I guess I should be grateful they didn't make me wear a jacket and tie. Especially . . . one like that." Smirking, he indicated the palm-tree and surfboard-themed tie Sandy was wearing.

"What is wrong with this tie?" Sandy demanded, smoothing it protectively.

Ryan's eyes widened. "Nothing," he claimed. "If you don't count the fact that it's really ugly . . . That is one of those opinions I'm allowed to have, right?"

"I hate it when my words come back to bite me in the ass," Sandy laughed.

"Um, Sandy, don't say 'bite me'." Sandy raised his eyebrows and Ryan grinned playfully. "Hey, 'ass' would have been too obvious. But don't say that either."

Sandy was about to reply when his phone, now discreetly on vibrate, went off. "One minute," he mouthed, and checked the message, while Ryan kneaded the back of his neck, idly looking out the window at specks of sunlight glinting off the waves.

"Good afternoon, gentlemen," a musical voice intoned as soon as Sandy replaced his phone. "I'm Beth, and I'll be your server today."

Ryan glanced around. Then he sucked in a sharp, silent breath, straightening his shoulders instinctively. The server—Beth—was beautiful, with thick mahogany hair tied into a high ponytail and limpid hazel eyes. To Ryan's gratified surprise, her gaze was focused on him rather than Sandy, and her expression was one of obvious interest, even invitation.

"May I tell you about our specials?"

Ryan inclined his head. "Sure," he drawled, gazing at her from under his lashes, his lips curved into a slow half-smile. "Tell me. What is special here today?" He walked his fingers over to the menu Beth was holding, letting his thumb rest a half-inch from hers.

Across the table, Sandy coughed and snapped open his own menu, his eyebrows wagging over the top.

"No, you know what? That's okay. We'll just order," Ryan amended hastily, pulling his hand back. "Thanks anyway."

"No problem," Beth assured him. "I'll give you a minute then." She shook out his napkin, and for a moment Ryan was afraid she'd place it on his lap. Instead she handed it to him and leaned closer, adding mischievously, "But if you want my recommendation, sport, I think you should get this." She whispered in Ryan's ear and then sauntered away, smiling at him over her shoulder.

Sandy waited until Beth disappeared. Then he closed his menu and set it flat on the table. "Ryan?" he asked meaningfully, his mouth clamped tight on a grin.

Ryan blinked. "I'm sorry. What?"

"I didn't quite catch what Beth said just now."

"Said?"

"To you? In your ear?"

Ryan's face flamed. "Oh, that? That was nothing," he sputtered, busying himself with his water glass. "She just . . . suggested the . . . the lobster bisque."

Sandy pursed his lips and nodded sardonically. "Right. The lobster bisque," he echoed. "You know, Ryan, this place is famous for its personal service, but I've never known it to be quite that personal before."

"She said lobster bisque," Ryan insisted.

"Ah yes," Sandy conceded. "But she said it to you, kid. And then there was the way that she said it." He sighed with dramatic self-pity. "Meanwhile, all Beth did for me was give me a menu. I even had to get my own napkin. Is there an evaluation card somewhere on the table? I think I'll want to write a few comments today. Or, wait, I have an idea. We could use one of your business cards, sport. That way you could leave Beth your number at the same time."

Ryan buried his face in his hands. "Sandy, stop. God," he groaned. "It's like having lunch with Seth. You two are so much alike sometimes."

"Hey!" Sandy protested, pointing at Ryan with mock-accusation. "That is a very low blow, kid, and completely uncalled-for. Besides, you were the one flirting shamelessly right in front of your father."

The last word echoed in sudden silence as Ryan looked up, stunned.

He had no idea how to respond.

"Well. That just . . . slipped out," Sandy admitted slowly, ruefully. For a moment, he paused, his steady gaze holding Ryan's, eyes warm with promise and conviction. Then he added, "I know it's not true literally, or even legally, but it's how I feel, Ryan. I'm not sorry I said it. Unless you are."

Ryan twisted his napkin under the table and shook his head, not sure that he trusted himself to speak.

"You know," Sandy mused, "what you said earlier to Scott, about how some things that you expect to be permanent just disappear? I want you to know something, Ryan. You've got an invisible Cohen tattoo now. And it's etched under your skin, kid, just like it's etched under ours. I guarantee, this one will last forever."

Ryan swallowed once, twice. "Good," he murmured hoarsely. "That's really . . . good to know. 'Cause I kind of like it. A lot."

Sandy's eyes glistened for a moment. Then he picked up his menu again and shook it open, deliberately lightening the mood. "And speaking of Cohens, that call I got was a text message from Seth. Apparently we are, and I quote, not clever or cute, and we should be very afraid because he is planning—wait for it—the revenge of the Seth."

"Oh well, yeah, now I'm terrified," Ryan declared, obviously grateful to be joking again. "You know, Sandy, I can't even remember why Seth's not speaking to me."

"Does it matter? Hey, kid, you won the lottery. Just enjoy. Don't worry if you can't recall buying the ticket. Ah!" Sandy lowered his voice confidentially and gestured to the side. "Beth is coming back. You're going to need extra ice water, right? Because I got the impression she does think you're cute. And vice versa."

"Sandy," Ryan hissed. He shifted back in his chair, affecting nonchalance until Beth approached the table and shook her head slightly. The movement set off a fireworks display of highlights in her hair, and in spite of himself Ryan felt his whole body respond.

Beth arched her brows and deliberately shook her head again. "Gentlemen. Are you ready to order?" she asked, aiming her smile at Ryan.

"Hmm." Sandy pretended to deliberate, just to enjoy Ryan's discomfiture. "I think I'll have, let's see, the chicken Marsala, a house salad, and an ice tea."

"And for you, sport?" Beth prompted, taking Sandy's menu without even glancing his way.

Ryan caught his lower lip in his teeth. He traced circles on the tablecloth and looked at Beth, considering.

"Ryan?" Sandy swirled his ice water significantly. "You have to order something that's actually on the menu. Now what was it you wanted? A hamburger, right?"

His ears burning, Ryan tore his eyes off Beth and glared at Sandy. "Actually, no," he announced defiantly. "I'll have the lobster bisque."

"Excellent choice. My personal favorite. But you know," Beth suggested, "I could bring you a hamburger with that. Sort of a surf and turf combination?"

"That would be great," Ryan agreed. "Medium rare? And something to drink. Anything really."

The tip of Beth's tongue appeared between her lips as she smiled, lowering her lashes. "I'll surprise you."

Sandy cleared his throat dramatically, eliciting a quick, sideways scowl from Ryan as he handed his menu back to Beth. She promptly dropped it beside his feet.

"God!" Ryan exclaimed, pushing back his chair. "I'm sorry. Let me get that for you."

"Thanks, sport, but I've got it," Beth drawled. She stooped, retrieved the menu and slowly stood up, trailing the fingers of one hand up Ryan's leg and across his lap.

Sandy watched Ryan's eyes grow large and dark and heard his sharp intake of breath as Beth turned to go. She strutted away, turning once to wink over her shoulder.

"So," Sandy concluded with dry emphasis. "I'm guessing you'll want to leave a big tip. Right, sport"

Ryan exhaled and took a long drink of water. "Oh. Yeah," he breathed.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"I thought you said you had a meeting here, Sandy." Confused, Ryan caught the polo shirt Sandy tossed to him and exchanged it for the sweater he was wearing.

"I do," Sandy replied. "A little golf practice, a little business conversation, and there you have it—a meeting at the club. By the way, kid, try not to stretch out the shoulders on that shirt, okay? I'd like to be able to wear it again."

Ryan grinned. "If you told me we were coming here, I would have brought a shirt of my own."

"Didn't want to scare you away, sport."

"Um, yeah, Sandy? About that 'sport' business? Could you maybe not share that with Seth and Kirsten?"

Furrowing his massive brows, Sandy pretended to give the question serious thought. "I don't know. 'Sport.' It just suits you somehow."

"Come on," Ryan urged. "After all, I swore not to say anything about girly-names, Sandy." He stressed the last word with a teasing lisp and then ducked behind the locker door when Sandy pointed a golf club at him. "Okay, sorry! I'm done."

"You'd better be," Sandy warned, laughing. "Let's go. I wouldn't mind getting in a few minutes of practice before the business part of this meeting begins."

"Right behind you," Ryan promised.

Picking up his briefcase, he stowed it carefully in Sandy's locker. When he had first carried it out of the house, it had made him feel like an imposter, but now Ryan liked having it in his hand. There was something reassuring about the briefcase, its solid weight, the way it balanced in his grasp, the worn grip of the handle, already comfortably indented by Sandy's fingers. The Cohens had bought him so many things, but as wonderful as those gifts had been, this, Ryan thought . . . this was special. Furtively, he ran his fingers over the leather a quick caress before he closed the locker door and ran to catch up with Sandy.

Just outside the locker room, discreet arrows directed people to the club's various venues. Ryan turned confidently toward the driving range, only to feel a golf club tap him on the shoulder.

"Kid? Afraid not. This way."

"Aw, Sandy," Ryan groaned, grimacing. "The putting green? Really?"

"Glenn Humphrey—my 1:15 appointment—says he needs to work on his short game," Sandy explained. "He wants to practice while we talk."

"Well, how about this?" Ryan suggested. "I'll go to the driving range, you go to the putting green, and we'll meet back here when you're done?"

Pointing his golf club at the sky, Sandy grinned and shook his head. "Oh, I don't think so. See the sun up there? Well, you know, when the sun is shining, I have a . . ."

"Shadow," Ryan sighed. "Right. And that would be me." He trailed Sandy reluctantly, running his fingertips over the fence posts that lined the walk, and loitering at the entrance to the putting green with the same expression of dread that he would wear waiting to see Dr. Kim.

With a sympathetic chuckle, Sandy patted Ryan's shoulder and nudged him forward. "You know, your short game could use some work too, kid," he pointed out.

"I don't have a short game," Ryan countered, hoisting his putter like a baseball bat. "And that's exactly the way I like it."

Sandy checked his watch. Since they still had ten minutes, and there was no sign yet of Glenn Humphrey, he sank a couple putts, lining up his shots carefully and nodding with satisfaction at his own success. Then he turned to Ryan.

"Your turn," he offered. "Remember now, just coax the ball. You don't need to go for power, just for finesse."

Ryan rolled his eyes, but he took a deep breath, centered his golf ball, and tapped it with what he hoped was gentle precision. The ball promptly overshot the hole and bounced back off the protective embankment. Cringing, Ryan covered his eyes with his hand. "I told you," he muttered. "I don't have the touch."

"Hmm," Sandy mused, watching the golf ball ricochet wildly. "Maybe I should see if Beth gives putting lessons. I'm guessing she might be able to demonstrate the touch. Sport."

"Sandy . . ." Ryan growled, glaring from between his fingers.

Sandy twirled his putter smugly. "Right, I forgot," he said. "No nicknames for you, no girly names for me. My bad."

"Yeah, and maybe no expressions like 'my bad' either?" Ryan suggested when an authoritative voice interrupted.

"Sanford! Right on time. Excellent."

Startled, Ryan wheeled around. "God, for a minute it sounded like Caleb," he whispered. "I didn't realize anybody else ever called you Sanford."

"I should have warned you," Sandy murmured back as he waved a greeting. "Glenn Humphrey is pretty much a Caleb clone--without the charm. Why don't you--?" He indicated the benches behind them and Ryan retreated, nodding.

"Right," he agreed. "I'll wait for you there." He sat down, idly swinging his putter back and forth between his feet, and watching as Glenn Humphrey strode over. The man even looked like Caleb, tall and sharply drawn.

"So, Sanford," Glenn said crisply, "I'm really don't understand why we need to have this conversation. Ted Collier tells me that he already explained Miriam Zifcheck's dismissal to you. But you insisted, so here I am."

Pushing his tangled hair off his forehead, Sandy regarded the other man with mild disdain. "Nice to see you too, Glenn."

"I'm trying not to waste our time," Glenn retorted. Impatiently, he polished his putter with a chamois. "Our stock fell last quarter, so Ted's division had to downsize. Unfortunately, that meant we had to let Miriam go. End of story."

"Really? It's pretty coincidental, don't you think?" Sandy demanded. "Miriam discovers that your company is, shall we say, misinterpreting EPA regulations. She brings the situation to your attention, just in case you somehow weren't aware of it. And within three months, Miriam loses her job--a job she's held for nearly thirty years. Hell of a way to treat a loyal employee, Glenn."

"Longevity and loyalty are not the same, Sanford. You can't expect us to reward betrayal. Besides, I told you—Miriam's dismissal was an economic decision, nothing else."

"Look, Glenn, Miriam didn't betray you," Sandy argued. "She didn't take her findings to the EPA. She came to you instead."

"And thanks to her, the company had to pay $15 million dollars out of pocket to take care of those . . . irregularities. Are you speaking to me as Miriam's lawyer, Sanford? Because I assure you, she has no grounds for a suit."

Ryan's eyes narrowed at the bite in Glenn Humphrey's voice, and he leaned forward slightly.

"I'm here as Miriam's friend, Glenn," Sandy replied coolly. "She's a single mother with four kids, and she's less than five years away from retirement. Just let her work out those years—or hell, give them to her."

For a moment, Glenn ignored Sandy entirely while he lined up a putt and adjusted his stance. After he sank the ball he turned around, his face creased with derision. "Give her the years? I run a business, not a charity," he retorted. "You know, Sanford, you're well past the age for youthful rebellion and righteous crusades. Don't you think it's time you got your head out of your ass and realized how the world works?"

Immediately, instinctively, Ryan was on his feet, one hand clenched tight around his golf club, the other tapping ominously against his own thigh. "Hey!" His voice contained a barely muted warning. "Who do you think you are, talking to Sandy that way?"

Glenn pivoted in irritated surprise. "What the hell?" he snapped. "I suggest you stay out of things that aren't your business, boy."

Ryan's jaw tensed and he took a step forward.

"I've got it, Ryan," Sandy murmured. He rested a hand on Ryan's arm, not holding him, just letting the slight pressure serve as a reminder. "You see, Glenn," he said evenly, "you've got it wrong. I know exactly how the world works. You only know how you want it to work. And your way doesn't work for other people. That's the whole point."

Glenn's eyes flickered from Sandy to Ryan and back again. "You wanted a meeting with me, you got it, Sanford. I think we're done here."

"I suppose we are. Let's go, Ryan," Sandy said. As they turned to go, he paused, noting with quiet venom, "By the way, Glenn, during this conversation I was Miriam's friend. The next time we speak, I will be her lawyer. Count on it."

Ryan was used to Sandy's open countenance, his familiar compassion and good humor. Rarely had he seen the man's face set in such angry lines. With a small frisson of charged admiration, he realized just how formidable Sanford Cohen, Attorney-at-Law could really be.

"What was that all about?" Ryan asked quietly as they walked away. "I mean, if you can tell me."

"You pretty much heard it all," Sandy answered. "Miriam Zifcheck discovered Humphrey Pharmaceuticals playing fast and loose with government regulations. She wrote a memo pointing out the problem and detailing how they could correct it. And what a surprise--three months later, they fired her. I thought I'd give Glenn Humphrey a chance to make it right. Should have known better."

"So what happens now?"

"Well, if we have to, we'll sue to get Miriam's job back. It's not going to be easy—Humphrey is a master at covering his tracks. But right now, Ryan? Driving range," Sandy declared tersely. "I really need to hit something hard."

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Thirty minutes later, refreshed by the cathartic exercise, Sandy and Ryan strolled through the parking lot. They were just approaching the car when Sandy's phone rang. Simultaneously, Ryan clapped a hand on his wrist exclaiming, "Damn! Sandy, I must have left my watch in the locker room."

"Okay, I'll take this call. You get your watch and meet me back here." Sandy lifted his eyebrows, adding with a grin, "But kid, no stopping along the way to flirt with Beth. You can do that on your own time."

Ryan laughed and trotted back to the club. Four minutes later he reappeared.

"Somebody had already turned it in to Lost and Found," he announced breathlessly, as he slid into the car. He fastened his seatbelt and strapped on his watch. "So, what's our next stop? The law library, right?" He glanced up, and his happy anticipation vanished instantly. Sandy's shoulders were slumped and his head was bowed over the steering wheel. "What is it, Sandy? What's wrong?"

At the sound of Ryan's voice, insistent and thin with anxiety, Sandy raised his head. He sketched a reassuring smile, but it never left his lips, and his tone was leaden. "Listen, kid, about this project . . . It's been great having you shadow me today, but why don't I drop you back at school now? You've got enough material, right?"

Baffled, Ryan shook his head. "I don't understand. Are you angry with me? I know I shouldn't have said anything to Mr. Humphrey--"

"No! Of course I'm not upset with you." Sandy swiveled to face Ryan, his eyes dark with something that looked like apology. "It's just . . . Look, kid, I was supposed to have a meeting with this one client today. I managed to reschedule it, but I just found out the man's hearing has been moved up."

"So . . . what does that mean exactly? You have to go to court this afternoon?"

Sandy swiped a hand over his face. "No," he answered flatly. "But I've got to meet with my client after all. At the prison in Chino."

"Oh."

Every bit of expression drained from Ryan's face and voice. His fingers twisted around the strap of his seatbelt, and his chest rose and fell spasmodically with strangled breaths.

"I know the memories that place will stir up, and you don't have to go through that, kid," Sandy said gently. "I'm sorry. We'll just call it a day, all right?"

Ryan's mouth crimped, forming nearly inaudible words, and Sandy leaned closer to hear him. "I can do this," he muttered. But his eyes had gone opaque, his body uncannily still, and there was a thin film of sweat on his skin.

"Are you sure?" Sandy prompted anxiously.

Ryan gave a tense nod. "I'm sure," he insisted, a single muscle throbbing in his set jaw. "Hell, it's not like I've forgotten Trey anyway. It's not even like I want to. I'll go with you, Sandy."

TBC


	4. Chapter 4

  
In His Shadow: The Drive 

Sandy forced himself to focus on the road, trying to keep his eyes from drifting sideways, to Ryan. A couple times he cleared his throat, issuing a subtle invitation to talk, and once he even murmured "You still with me, kid?" but the words prompted no response. Ryan remained motionless, his back rigid, jaw clenched, shuttered face fixed on a vanishing point somewhere far outside the window.

He had closed himself down, closed Sandy out entirely.

Something about Ryan's posture struck Sandy as familiar, and with a start, he recognized what it was: that very first weekend, when they had returned to his empty house, Ryan had sat the same way, silent and bereft, isolated on the distant edge of the passenger seat.

Remembering, Sandy's own body tensed with regret. All day, he recalled, the two of them had shared such an effortless trust. It had felt sure and inviolable. For the first time in so long—maybe for the first time ever--Ryan had been open, relaxed and candid and willing to connect.

Until now.

How could they have come back to this?

Sandy wondered what Ryan saw, if he even saw anything, when he stared vacantly at the passing world. Looking out the front windshield, Sandy frowned, unable to make sense of his own impressions. He had driven to Chino often before, but each time he had been mulling cases, or simply lost in other thoughts. He had never paid attention to the view. Now he tried to see it with Ryan's eyes. As he watched, color seemed to leach slowly out of the scenery. A coarse gray filter shrouded the structures they passed, leaving them murky, distorted. Everything he saw appeared half-erased, even though, logically, Sandy realized the colors outside were actually growing more garish, clashing chaotically as the buildings crowded closer.

Maybe the smudged quality of the scene outside was due to the dirt, to so much peeling paint and flaking, exposed wood. Maybe it was due to all the litter heedlessly dropped to the street and left to disintegrate under the wheels of passing cars.

Maybe it was just due to despair.

Desperate to rouse Ryan, to dispel whatever self-doubts had locked him inside himself, Sandy tapped his shoulder. He tried to ignore the fact that the boy flinched physically before turning his head.

"What did you want to ask me earlier, Ryan?"

Ryan blinked. "What?"

"Before lunch," Sandy explained. "You wanted to ask me something and then you changed your mind and just started talking about food. What was it?"

Ryan's fist closed over the strap of his seat belt, pinching it in half, his knuckles sharp with tension. "Nothing," he claimed.

"And you know what 'nothing' tells me?" Sandy countered quietly. "That there's something you want to know. Talk to me, kid."

They rode in silence for another minute. Then Ryan's gaze darted over, wary and still unwilling. "It's none of my business really," he began. His voice trailed off, and one shoulder hunched, a gesture of guilty surrender.

"Ask, Ryan. If it's really none of your business, I just won't answer."

Ryan gave the slightest of nods. His mouth moved, as though he were trying out words before he spoke. "Okay," he said diffidently. "Why did you leave the P.D.'s office, Sandy?"

Startled, Sandy's face creased in a quick, thoughtful frown. He hadn't been sure what question to expect, but the issue of his career change hadn't occurred to him at all. It had happened so long ago, and the family had suffered so much more significant upheaval since then.

Or so he had believed. But obviously something about Sandy's decision still perturbed Ryan, enough to compel him to raise the subject even after all this time.

Swallowing something that tasted like shame, Sandy gripped the steering wheel tighter. "That really bothered you, didn't it, kid?"

Ryan shrugged. He shifted in his seat, lowering his eyes back to his seat belt. "Yeah," he admitted reluctantly.

"You thought I sold out."

"What? No!" Ryan protested, his head snapping up. "I'd never think that. It's just . . . shit, Sandy, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have mentioned it."

"Hey no, don't apologize. Just talk to me," Sandy urged again. "Tell me why it upset you so much."

Ryan hesitated, chewing his bottom lip, before he answered. At last, almost inaudibly, he mumbled, "It's selfish." Sandy had to strain to hear him over the low hum of the motor. "But I keep thinking . . . if you had decided to quit a couple months earlier . . . you wouldn't have been my lawyer."

Sandy released a long breath of comprehension. He began to phrase a reply, but stopped, surprised, when Ryan continued speaking.

"I was so damn lucky. I don't mean just because you took me in. Even before that—you cared, right from the start. I wasn't just a case file to you. And so when you quit, I couldn't help feeling. . . God, I can't explain it." Ryan's voice vibrated with frustration. "I know no matter where you work, you'll still be helping people. Like Scott, this morning. And trying to get her job back for that woman, Mrs. Zifcheck. Helping people—it's what you do. It's just . . . Not every kid gets a Sandy, you know?"

"Not every P.D. finds a Ryan either," Sandy observed gently. "I'd say we both got lucky there."

"But see, I don't get that," Ryan argued. "Everything you've done for me—and God, you've done so much—there are so many kids who deserve it more. I wasn't anybody special. Shit, I wasn't even innocent."

Sandy glanced over, his brows furrowed, and his expression pensive. Then, impulsively, he pulled into a nearby parking lot and turned off the car.

Ryan's breath hissed in alarm. "Sandy, what are you doing?" he demanded. "We can't just stop. Your appointment at the prison--"

"Relax, kid. We have plenty of time. This conversation is important. I'd like to give it my full attention."

"But we don't have to talk about any of this now," Ryan objected apprehensively. "Or, you know, here . . ."

Flushing, he indicated the nearly abandoned strip mall in front of them. An erratically flashing neon sign blinked "Tap Ho se" over the entrance of a bar with one boarded-up window. To its left, a hand-lettered placard in a storefront promised "Fast Cash Until Payday"; two doors down on the right stood a dingy pawnshop, its display a careless jumble of cameras, watches and jewelry, a threadbare fur coat and, improbably propped in the center, a child-size violin. All the other buildings appeared ramshackle, sagging against each other like famine victims struggling to stay on their feet.

"Why not here, Ryan?" Sandy asked evenly.

"I can't . . ." Ryan murmured. His gaze skidded desperately from Sandy to the hopeless view outside, and back down to his feet, "We should just go. I shouldn't have said anything. I'm sorry."

"I'm not," Sandy declared. "It's time we talked about all this. But level with me, Ryan. Do you want to know why I left the P.D.'s office, or do you want to know why I believed in you enough to bring you home with me?"

Unconsciously, Ryan reached down, touching his briefcase as if fingering a talisman. "Both?" The word was faint and uncertain.

Sandy nodded. "Okay." He blew out a heavy breath and closed his eyes, considering. "I left the P.D.'s office because I was restless," he admitted finally. "God, kid, I wish I could give you a better answer, but that's the truth. It sounds so damn shallow, but honestly, I just wanted to try something different."

Ryan averted his face. "Something more important," he concluded. His toneless voice drifted like vapor out the window.

"No." Sandy unfastened his seatbelt, angling his body so he could face Ryan. "Look at me, please," he ordered, quiet and compelling. "Ryan . . ."

Very slowly, Ryan met Sandy's eyes. His own looked trapped, like those of an injured animal unable to escape an approaching deathblow.

"No job I could ever do was more important than my work at the P.D.'s office, Ryan," Sandy maintained. "I always knew that. Leaving there—it wasn't about money, or prestige, and it certainly wasn't because I thought other cases or people mattered any more than the ones I was already handling. It's just . . . I don't know how to say this and have it make sense to you." Grimacing ruefully, Sandy admitted, "It took Kirsten to explain it to me. She was shocked too, when I accepted the job at Partridge, Savage, and Kahn, and we stayed up a long time one night discussing why I wanted to make a change. This is what we figured out, Ryan. After you joined our family, I needed to find a new direction for my career--"

"Why?" Ryan blurted, the words veering between accusation and apology. "What did I do?"

"Nothing, kid. You did nothing wrong, if that's what you mean." Sighing, Sandy raked a hand through his hair. "Let me try this again," he suggested gently. "After you joined our family, Ryan, I felt like I had accomplished all I was meant to do at the P.D.'s office. Like in some way, meeting you had been my purpose there all along, so once I had . . . well, my work there was done and that part of my life was complete. It's not rational, kid, but it's how I felt. Can you understand that at all?"

Ryan ducked his head. "I don't know," he answered haltingly. "Maybe a little?"

"Okay." Sandy risked a small smile. "You think about it, and if you want to talk more later, we can, although I don't really know what else I can tell you . . . So, that was issue number 1: Now, issue number 2."

Embarrassed, Ryan turned back to the window, staring at the bleak scenery. "You don't have to," he muttered.

"I want to," Sandy declared. "Ryan, listen. You said you weren't innocent when we met. Technically, I guess you're right about that. But you weren't guilty either. Not in any way that really counts. Trust me, I've got enough experience to know the difference. Do you?"

Ryan chewed his lower lip. "I'm not sure," he admitted.

"Well, then, consider this. Stealing the car wasn't your idea. You went along with it out of loyalty to Trey. You didn't want to do it, you didn't enjoy it, and you would have regretted it even if you hadn't gotten caught. True?"

"I . . . guess."

"You guess? I know," Sandy insisted.

Ryan shook his head, not convinced. "But Sandy, I never even told you all of that."

"Of course you did. Just not in words. Lawyers—the good ones anyway—they learn to hear what their clients don't say," Sandy explained. Smiling fondly, he reached over and kneaded Ryan's shoulder for a moment. "Listen, there are degrees of guilt, kid. You always assume more than you really deserve. But saying that you weren't special . . . well, you couldn't be more wrong about that. Even when we talked that first time, when you were putting up that cynical front—and I'll give you this much, you really were a smartass—I could see it." Sandy paused for a moment, remembering. "You asked about Trey," he added softly.

Shocked, Ryan spun around, swallowing convulsively. "What?"

"The first words you said to me—you wanted to know if your brother was okay. No excuses or questions about what was going to happen to you. It told me everything I needed to know, Ryan, that your first concern was for somebody else."

Ryan closed his eyes and opened them again. Just like the vista outside, they appeared colorless, desolate. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "If that's what made you think I was worth something . . . I'm sorry you were so wrong about me."

Puzzled, Sandy lowered his brows, squinting with concentration. "I don't know what you mean, Ryan. I wasn't wrong."

"Sure you weren't," Ryan scoffed. His mouth twisted sardonically as he locked his arms around his chest. Sandy could see the nails of Ryan's right hand biting deep into his bicep. "A fucking lot of good my concern did for Trey, right? Yeah, I'm such a great brother. Where would he be without me?"

"No," Sandy countered. His expression was intense and unyielding, and although Ryan squirmed slightly, he couldn't escape it. "I'm not going to let you get away with that, kid. What happened with Trey was not your fault. You played a part in it, yes. So did I. We all did. But considering how fast Trey self-destructed? Ryan, it was only a matter of time before he would up back in prison. Or worse."

"Worse? You mean like attacked in his own apartment and then shot?" Ryan retorted. His erratic breathing chopped the words into raw, bleeding pieces. "Shit, Sandy, yeah, I was concerned about Trey. As long as it didn't cost me. But the minute it did . . ."

"No," Sandy repeated more forcefully. Somehow he had lost control of the conversation, and with every word, he sensed Ryan withdrawing further into himself. "You're letting your feelings about what happened warp your memory, kid. That's not how it was--"

The blaring of his phone intruded abruptly, and Sandy broke off, frustrated. "Born to be Wild" had sounded defiant before, but now the same chords simply mocked him. Grabbing the phone, Sandy switched the control over to vibrate, and set it back down.

Ryan frowned. "Aren't you going to answer it?"

"You and I need to finish this discussion. I can check the message when we're done."

"No, answer it. Please, Sandy?" A note of desperation threaded through Ryan's voice. "You're supposed to be working. And hell, you already stopped driving so we could talk, even though it might make you late for your meeting. I don't want to fuck up your job . . . Just, please, take the call, all right?"

Sandy hesitated for a moment. Then he nodded and retrieved the phone, not even glancing at the display. His "Hello" was terse, but an instant later, he softened his tone.

"Kirsten, sweetheart . . . No, everything is fine. I didn't mean to snap at you . . . Yes, I know. I'll work on my phone manners. So what's up? . . . He is not bored . . . Honey, I promise, he hasn't fallen asleep once . . . Yes, he's right here, but I don't think . . . Kirsten . . . Okay, wait just a minute . . ." Sandy lowered the phone and turned to Ryan, his mouth crimped in apology. "Kirsten wants to speak to you. Sorry. I should have told her you weren't available."

Ryan swiped a hand across his face. "It's okay," he said, his voice faint but steady. Taking the phone, he clenched his jaw briefly, bracing himself before he spoke to Kirsten. Sandy turned away to give Ryan at least the illusion of privacy. He wished he could hear both sides of the conversation, because Ryan's fragmented responses told him nothing substantial.

"Hey, Kirsten . . . It's been great . . . No, no show tunes yet . . . Yeah, I got to sit in on a couple of meetings . . . Really interesting. I learned a lot . . . He is not making me say that . . . The country club . . . I know. And he made me go to the putting green too . . . No, Kirsten, honestly? Sandy's been—he's been amazing . . . He is not making me say that either, I swear." Gradually, Ryan's measured tone eased into a more natural cadence, even hinted at amusement. To Sandy's relief, he could sense the boy begin to relax slightly beside him. "I don't know. Maybe Italian? . . . Yeah, that would be great . . . Me too . . . Kirsten? Thanks. Thank you for calling."

For a moment, Sandy thought he heard "Thank you for caring." Maybe the words really meant the same thing.

Ryan clicked the "end" button, but he didn't put away the phone. Instead he held it, his thumb absently outlining the different controls. "We should really get going now, Sandy," he observed quietly.

"I guess you're right," Sandy agreed. He inclined his head, flashing one last anxious glance at Ryan, then turned on the ignition and backed out of his parking place. For a moment he considered resuming their discussion, but Sandy didn't want to risk agitating Ryan again. Instead he asked mildly, "So . . . Kirsten checking to make sure that I'm treating you right?"

"Yeah," Ryan murmured. "Something like that . . . Sandy, is it okay if I make a call?"

"Of course. Go ahead, use my phone." Deliberately, Sandy kept his tone casual, and his eyes fixed on the road. "Do you mind me overhearing you, though?"

"No. It's not a big deal. I'm just calling Seth."

"Seth?" Sandy echoed, confused. "Really? Why?"

Ryan's brow creased, as if he shared the same question. "I just," he began uncertainly. His voice wavered, and he shrugged, swallowing, before he concluded, "I want to apologize for . . . well, whatever I said that made him stop speaking to me." His lips attempted a distorted smile. "I suppose it might help if I could remember what it was, but anyway . . . And then, you know, tricking him when he called before . . ."

"Ryan, you know Seth's not really upset about any of that, right?" Surprise sharpened his tone more than Sandy intended and he modified it hastily. "This is fun for him, kid. It's all a game—the injured party act, the threats, the one-upmanship. Seth thrives on this stuff."

"Maybe," Ryan conceded dubiously. "But I just want to be sure his feelings weren't hurt."

Sandy scanned Ryan's profile. His eyes narrowed, trying to read the boy's mood, to understand how the conversation had ricocheted so wildly from Sandy's career to Ryan joining the Cohen family to Trey and now to Seth. Somehow, he sensed, in some convoluted way, it all connected significantly, at least to Ryan himself.

And then, in a rush, Sandy realized: Ryan believed he had lost one brother, through his own fault.

He didn't want to risk losing another. Not even in play.

"Okay. Call Seth," Sandy urged. "Wait. He's not in class now, is he?"

Ryan checked his watch. "No. It's activities period. He'll be at a comic book club meeting, I think."

"Well, I think he can spare a few minutes from that. If it's all right, though, Ryan, would you put the phone on speaker so I can hear? After all, I was part of the evil Pretend-Father plot." Sandy grinned, hoping to elicit an answering smile, but Ryan's distant expression didn't change. A muscle in his jaw continued to throb, and his eyes remained hooded.

Simultaneously Ryan turned on the speaker and pressed Seth's speed dial number. After three rings, a wary voice demanded, "Yeah? Hello?"

Ryan took a deep breath, released it. "Hey, Seth."

"Hmm," Seth murmured suspiciously. "And you would be?"

"Come on, man. It's Ryan. I called to apologize."

"Ah, of course you did. Ryan." Seth stressed the name, adding sarcastically, "Or should I say, Dad?"

"No games this time, really Seth," Ryan promised. "I just wanted to--"

Seth broke in, indignant. "You two think you can fool me again? Oh no, and in case you missed the point, let me repeat: no, no, and a melodramatic thousand times no. By the way, Dad, a little advice? When you want to impersonate Ryan, it's so not smart to use your own phone. Details count, you know. Or maybe that's neatness. Anyway, I am totally on to you both. This little trick is only adding fuel to my righteous fury."

"Seth," Ryan persisted patiently, "it's Ryan. Really. No trick. And I'm sorry about before. It was just a joke."

"Ha!" Seth exclaimed. Then he scrambled to clarify, "By the way, that? Was a sneering 'ha', and not laughter of any kind because nothing about that bogus act was remotely amusing. But if you want to claim that you're Ryan, just go ahead, Dad. Prove it."

"What?"

"Prove to me that I'm really talking to Ryan Atwood."

Ryan said nothing. The heavy silence lasted almost thirty seconds. Then Seth gave a weak laugh. "Oh . . . kay, Ryan Atwood, it is. Dad could never keep quiet that long."

"Hey!" Sandy objected. "I heard that, son."

"Yes! I knew you'd be part of this one way or another!" Seth declared triumphantly. "Don't think I've forgotten that you sided against me before, mon père. I'm adding it to the list, right after the time you elbowed me in the face fighting for a fly ball. Which wouldn't have been so bad, but let's not overlook that it was injury added to the insult of forcing me to go to a baseball game in the first place--"

"Seth, don't blame your dad," Ryan interjected. "Pretending to be him when you called was all my idea."

"Ah, yes, but there was collusion involved, and the Seth will remember when he has his revenge. So what's the joke this time, Ryan? Warp speed, if you don't mind. The comic book club is about to deconstruct the latest Legion."

"No joke," Ryan insisted. He spoke earnestly, and Sandy held his breath, wondering how Seth would react. "I told you, Seth, I just want to apologize. For tricking you into speaking to me earlier, and for . . . well, whatever I said this morning that upset you in the first place. I'm sorry."

Seth's voice seemed to deflate. "Yeah?" he stammered in surprise. "Oh, well . . . okay, then, I guess. I mean, if you're sorry . . . Dude, I don't get this. Why are you sorry? Is there something wrong? Are you okay?"

Sandy raised his eyebrows, silently asking the same question.

"I'm fine," Ryan claimed.

"Right. Fine," Seth echoed dubiously. "And I totally believe you except, yeah, not so much. Maybe . . .?" He began to whisper, "You've heard one 'heretofore' too many, and your eyes are starting to glaze over, right? Dude, I warned you that you'd get bored. Okay, if you've had as much legalese as you can stand and you want me to dream up some excuse so you can leave, cough once. If you want me just to pick you up, cough twice."

Rolling his eyes, Sandy leaned close to the phone. "I'm here, Seth, remember?" he called. "I think I can crack that code."

"Shit. Okay, Ryan, new plan--"

"Thanks, Seth, but honestly I'm not bored," Ryan said hastily. "I just wanted to make sure you weren't really mad. So you're not? We're okay?"

Clearly confused, Seth stuttered, "Yeah . . . I mean, no I'm not mad, and yeah, we're okay. But hey, bro, come on. This whole conversation is, I gotta say, a few miles beyond weird. Something's up with you. What is it, dude?"

Sandy noticed Ryan's eyes flicker evasively, even though Seth couldn't see him.

"Look, Seth, I've got to go. We'll talk later, all right?"

"Right," Seth agreed, still sounding puzzled. "Okay, then. Later."

Exhaling deeply, Ryan put away the phone and tilted his head against the seat back, closing his eyes.

Sandy stopped the car at a red light, taking advantage of the opportunity to study Ryan's profile and his body language. "You feel better now?" he asked quietly.

Ryan nodded. "I don't know why exactly," he admitted. "But yeah, I do."

"Good. Listen, kid, I know this trip to Chino is hard for you. It's stirred up a lot of feelings, probably just when you thought you had them all under control. So why don't I just drop you somewhere and pick you up after my meeting," Sandy suggested. "Just give me a place. The library, maybe, or you could take in a movie--"

Ryan's eyes snapped open and he shook his head.

"No! I want to see him," he blurted. "When we get to the prison, I want to see Trey. You can make that happen, can't you, Sandy?"

A car horn blared behind them, and someone shouted, "You blind? The light's green! Move it, dumbass!" Automatically, Sandy shifted into gear and began driving again.

"Sandy?" Ryan prompted, his voice frayed with desperation.

"I'll see what I can do," Sandy replied slowly. "But Ryan, if you visit Trey—if you're sure that you want to see him—you're not doing it alone. I'm going with you."

TBC

_I've read a couple stories recently that also had Sandy reference Ryan's concern for Trey during their first meeting, so if that part of their conversation sounds familiar—well, it probably is. But since it's based on canon, I'm assuming we were all similarly inspired. Anyway, no plagiarism was intended!_


	5. Chapter 5

In His Shadow, Part 5: The Wait 

_My apologies for switching up this story! I did indeed reference Trey's death in chapter 1, before it became clear that the show wasn't going to kill the character. So I resurrected him too, forgetting that I'd (gulp) said he was dead, and thinking only that I'd mentioned him being shot. I revised chapter 1 to reflect this—and thanks to the reviewers who pointed it out! Now the story presumes that Trey's attempt to escape to Los Vegas didn't work out. He was picked up on parole violations (possession of a gun and drugs, leaving the state) and returned to prison._

Sandy sat listening to his turn-signal tick off empty seconds, waiting for the light to change. One finger tapped against the steering wheel. Belatedly, he realized what he was doing and stopped, forcing out a half-hearted chuckle.

"I give it a 75, Dick. It doesn't have a good beat, and you can't dance to it." When Ryan didn't reply, didn't even react at all, Sandy explained, "That's an 'American Bandstand' reference, kid. Way before your time, I know. Mine too, really, but hey, the show's practically a cultural icon."

A horn behind them blared impatiently, reminding Sandy that he had a green arrow. With an apologetic wave, he turned down the bleak drive leading to Chino prison. As he did, his eyes narrowed and a sour taste filled his mouth. For the first time, it struck Sandy that even the parking lot here resembled a kind of jail. Bare and bleached gray, it was surrounded by a sinister fence and supervised by a guard who checked IDs as people entered. He peered at the photos and then into the cars, scrutinizing faces as if he might have to describe them later to a sketch artist.

Chilled by the guard's icy stare, Sandy replaced his wallet, his gaze sliding furtively over to Ryan as he pulled into a parking space.

A wry half-smile splintered the boy's face for just a moment. "You don't have to keep doing that, Sandy," he murmured.

"Doing what?"

"Looking at me that way. Like you're making sure I'm still here."

"I wasn't--" Sandy protested. Then he sighed, admitting ruefully, "Okay, I was. You absolutely sure about this, kid?"

Ryan plucked at the hem of his sweater, averting his eyes. "Yeah," he muttered, the word evaporating in one heavy breath. When he unlatched his seat belt, its click echoed, sharp and metallic in the silence of the car.

"Wait," Sandy urged. He laid a hand on Ryan's arm, gently holding him in place. "Look, I've got to talk with my client before I see about getting you in to visit Trey. It'll be at least half an hour, maybe a little more, and I'm sorry, Ryan, but you can't sit in on this meeting. Why don't you take the car and go . . . I don't know, maybe get something to eat?"

A shadow of weary gratitude crossed Ryan's face, but he shook his head. "We just had lunch."

"Hey, that was almost two hours ago," Sandy countered, striving for a light, bantering tone. "Come on. You must have worked up an appetite since then."

"On the putting green?" Ryan bit back a tiny grin. "Yeah, not so much."

Sandy blew out a defeated breath. "Right," he conceded. "I just hate the idea of you sitting inside this place waiting for me, kid."

"I know," Ryan said softly. "And thanks—for trying to make this easier, I mean. But I can deal with it." He said the last words with quiet confidence, and Sandy smiled his approval.

"Okay, then. I'll be as quick as I can. Ready?"

Ryan nodded once and reached for his briefcase. Then he frowned. "I shouldn't take this with me," he mused.

"Why not?"

"It just . . . it doesn't feel right. Not here."

Sandy's brows creased anxiously, but he didn't argue. "Then leave it," he suggested. "It will be safe in the car."

Sandy watched as Ryan got out. He saw how the boy's eyes scanned the area, seeking the exit, how he automatically slid his hands down his sides, balling them into fists when he found no pockets where they could hide. The hunched shoulders, the shuttered face, reminded Sandy painfully of the last time he and Ryan had entered this place, the day that Trey had been released. With the clarity of hindsight, Sandy recalled how Ryan had shrunk in on himself then, the same way he was doing now. Instinctively, his body was trying to present the smallest possible target, to shield him against hope, brace him for disappointment.

"So," Sandy said casually as they crossed the baked asphalt of the parking lot, "Italian for dinner tonight, huh?"

Ryan blinked against the sunlight. "What?"

"Dinner?" Sandy prompted. "When Kirsten called, you asked her to order Italian?"

"Oh. Yeah. Yeah, I did." Just as Sandy had hoped, a trace of tension drained from Ryan's face at the thought of Kirsten and home, and a faint smile played briefly at the corners of his lips. "She asked what I wanted—well, really, what the firm of Cohen and Atwood wanted—to eat. Italian okay with you?"

Sandy clapped an arm around Ryan's shoulders. "Ah, you know me, kid. Anytime I get Montoni's linguini carbonara I am a happy man."

"Yeah, only I think Kirsten said she was going to order from Luigi's."

Abruptly, Sandy rocked to a stop, one foot on the first step leading to the prison entrance, pulling Ryan to a halt beside him. "Luigi's?" he objected. "Oh, no. That is unacceptable. What they call al dente is more like uncooked. I am not eating pasta that has the texture of dry cereal. Here . . ." Snapping open his briefcase, Sandy pulled out his cell phone and thrust it at Ryan. "Call Kirsten. Tell her the senior partner in Cohen and Atwood demands Montoni's and that he refuses to negotiate."

Ryan tilted his head, frowning quizzically at Sandy. The phone rested, unclaimed, on his open palm.

"I mean it, Ryan," Sandy insisted. He looked up the stairs at the heavy gray door, with its opaque grilled window, then back at Ryan, and his words tangled on the frayed edge of entreaty. "Call Kirsten. And then . . . I don't know, call Seth, or Marissa--"

"No!" Ryan blurted. "Not Marissa."

Sandy sensed the boy's frisson of panic and amended quietly, "Right. You wouldn't want to phone Marissa from here. But you can call the time and temperature, or the joke of the day or—hell, I don't know, call Beth at the club if you want. Just don't come inside, kid. Please."

Ryan hesitated. When he spoke, his tone was taut with disappointment. "But Sandy, you said--"

"I said I'd try to get you in to see Trey. And I will do that, I promise," Sandy maintained. "But I don't want you waiting inside this place alone."

His cheeks burning with comprehension, Ryan tried to return the phone. "Sandy, it's okay. I told you, I can handle this."

"Maybe you can. But I can't. So do this for me, okay kid?" Sandy urged. This client I'm seeing . . . the D.A. just offered him a plea bargain. If I can talk him into accepting it, I'll be able to get him home to his family in eighteen months, tops. But he's set on a trial, so to convince him that he should take the plea, I need to be on top of my game. I won't be if I'm--" Sandy left the statement unfinished, but Ryan felt the weight of the words he didn't say.

"Worried about me," he concluded flatly.

"Right." Sandy cupped a hand under Ryan's chin, making the boy look up to meet his eyes. "Seriously," he said, his voice low and grave, "this is no place to be by yourself. It gets to everyone, Ryan, even people who don't have somebody inside that they care about. I swear, I will come get you as soon as my meeting is over."

Unable to evade Sandy's measuring gaze, Ryan straightened his shoulders, swallowing hard. "So this guy you're defending," he asked, "he's got a family waiting for him?"

"Three kids," Sandy answered promptly. "Two little girls and an infant son."

His eyes dark with mingled compassion and memory, Ryan took a shaky breath. "Okay," he agreed. "I'll wait for you out here."

Impulsively, Sandy wrapped him in a quick hug. "Thanks," he murmured. "And you'll call Kirsten and Seth? You won't just sit and brood?"

"I don't--" Ryan began, but Sandy wagged his eyebrows and he finished sheepishly. "Well, not as much anymore. But yeah, if that's what you want me to do, I'll call."

"That's my boy."

With a final, reassuring smile, Sandy disappeared inside the building. As soon as the door closed behind him, Ryan slid down the wall, pressing his back against its pebbled surface, and pulling his knees up to his chest. There was no overhang, no shade to assuage the pitiless sun, and no breeze to stir the stagnant air.

There was, Ryan thought, no escape possible from this hellish place.

In the silence, he could hear the final echo of the latch snapping shut. He forced his mind to mute that sound, to replay instead Sandy's parting remark. "That's my boy," he had said, and Ryan couldn't make himself care that the words weren't literally true.

Sandy had meant them. He wouldn't lie.

Lifting the cell phone, Ryan flipped it open, but then his hand stalled.

Two months ago, he and Seth had been absorbed in a fierce video battle when the Cohens' phone rang. From behind the book he was reading, Sandy had glanced at the boys expectantly. When neither of them moved, he rolled his eyes, heaved an indulgent sigh and took the call himself. Almost immediately, all the animation seeped from his face, leaving it still and expressionless when he hung up the phone. He had cleared his throat once, and then choked out, "Ryan," two syllables that sucked all the air from the room. Trey, Sandy reported, had been apprehended in Las Vegas; he was being returned to Chino prison to serve out his full prison term.

There had been a few seconds when his words hung suspended, flayed by the violent noise of the abandoned videogame. Then Ryan had placed his controller on the coffee table, pushed himself to his feet and turned robotically toward the pool house. He didn't stop to learn the details—what Trey had been doing, whether he had committed some other crime, whether someone had turned him in. Sandy had waited, his concerned eyes probing Ryan's face, expecting questions that Ryan couldn't force through his closed throat.

It hardly mattered anyway. Whatever had happened, it was already done. Maybe the outcome had always been inevitable.

At the doorway, Ryan had paused, staring at some invisible spot in the distance. He managed only three words, his voice thick and bruised. "Is he okay?"

"Physically? Yeah, he's okay."

Ryan had nodded and opened the French doors.

"Kid, wait--" Sandy had called, "do you want . . .?"

He left the inquiry open, hoping that Ryan might fill in the blank, but Ryan shook his head almost imperceptibly and vanished into the pool house.

_To see him_, he thought now. That's what Sandy had been about to suggest. _Do you want to see Trey?_

Ryan himself didn't really understand why he had rejected the idea. Immediately after his release from juvie, he had felt compelled to see his brother, driven to Trey's deserted hospital room by a million thoughts jostling in his mind, demanding to be spoken. But he had lost his chance. Trey boarded a bus and its doors closed, sealing him inside before Ryan could reach him. Through the glazed window separating them, all the brothers could offer each other was one forlorn look, one silent wave. That single gesture seemed to erase everything—the questions and accusations, the need to apologize, the need to explain, the desperate need to discover if their lifelong bond had been severed forever.

Ryan missed Trey in every way possible.

Always before. their shared past, their essential brotherhood, had sustained Ryan, like some steadying hand against his back, warm and familiar, even when its nails bit into his skin. When the bus pulled away, so did that support. Ryan felt himself start to waver, cold and lonely with loss.

But Sandy had been there to hold him up.

Sandy was always there, solid and strong, and so was Seth, and at last even Kirsten had returned, sealing in the security of the Cohen family, sheltering Ryan from his memories.

Sitting on the gritty, heat-baked cement outside the prison door, Ryan forced himself to admit how much he had come to take for granted: home, structure, security. Kept promises. Unconditional love. He had relaxed into the comforting Cohen routine, lulled by bagels and cereal, take-out containers and curfews, morning talks with Seth, Kirsten's concern about his well-being, Sandy's belief in his future. In him.

Eventually, Ryan could almost pretend he had known no other life.

So he had allowed himself to ignore the fault line that ran under that world. Even with Trey back in the Chino prison, Ryan hadn't acknowledged the tremor, or the cracks that threatened to open under him.

Now he had no choice.

Disgusted with himself, he tilted his head back, staring into the sun until his vision blurred and his eyes itched with unshed tears. Ryan palmed them dry fiercely. He took a deep breath, angled himself away from the door, and punched a number into Sandy's phone, blowing out small puffs of air as he waited for Kirsten to answer.

She picked up on the third ring. "Afternoon, sweetheart," she caroled, her voice lilting flirtatiously. "This is a surprise. Let me guess. You're calling just to say that you miss me?"

"Um . . . Kirsten? It's not . . . I mean, it's Ryan."

"Ryan!" Kirsten punctuated the word with an embarrassed giggle. "Oh, sweetie, I'm sorry. It's just that you're using Sandy's phone, so I thought . . ."

Ryan flushed, suspecting that Kirsten was doing the same on her end. "Yeah, I know," he said. "Sandy asked me to call."

"He did? Why? Is anything wrong?"

"No," Ryan claimed. Closing his eyes to block out his surroundings, he focused on sounding nonchalant. "Well, maybe from Sandy's perspective there is. I told him we were having Italian tonight and he was wondering if we could order from Montoni's."

Amusement bubbled through Kirsten's reply. "Was he now?"

"Actually," Ryan confessed, "he wasn't so much wondering as demanding. Sandy said . . ."

"What?" Kirsten prompted. "Don't you cover for him, Ryan. What did Sandy say?

"He said no negotiations."

Kirsten emitted an exasperated sound, halfway between a groan and a laugh. "Honestly, that man!" she exclaimed. "Just because he gets slightly undercooked pasta once, he wants to boycott the place forever. And now he makes you relay his demands? Oh, he is not getting away with that. Put Sandy on, Ryan. Let me talk to him."

"Um . . . sorry, I can't. He's with a client. That's why he asked me to call."

"Really? You're not sitting in on the meeting?"

Ryan tightened his hold on the phone defensively. "Not this one. I can't. It's confidential."

"Oh," Kirsten breathed, her obvious surprise shaded with concern. "I thought Sandy cleared his schedule so you could be with him all day."

"Yeah, well, pretty much, he did. This meeting just . . . came up . . . and it's not a big deal really, Kirsten. It'll just last a half an hour or so."

"Even so, I'm sure Sandy is disappointed." Kirsten lowered her voice confidentially. "Promise you won't let him know I told you this, Ryan, but he was thrilled that you asked to do this project with him. He acted like a little kid who just got the perfect present on his birthday."

Ryan's lips curved into a wistful smile, and he shifted the phone, damp from his sweaty grasp, into his other hand. "Yeah?"

"Absolutely. Spending the day with you like this? It means so much to him. And the icing on the cake was that you agreed go surfing with him this morning. You're spoiling him for the rest of us, Ryan," Kirsten teased.

"The surfing was pretty great, actually," Ryan recalled. He frowned, wondering why the memory wasn't more vivid, why it already seemed so distant and dim.

Kirsten's gentle voice roused him. "And what about the rest of the day?"

"There's been . . . a lot. I don't know if I can explain," Ryan answered carefully. He faltered, searching for the right words. "This sounds sort of silly, Kirsten—I mean, I've lived with you guys for two years—but I kind of feel like I'm really getting to know Sandy today."

"Oh, Ryan. That's not silly at all. In fact, I think it's pretty wonderful."

"Yeah," Ryan agreed slowly. "Yeah, me too. So maybe . . . we can order from Montoni's after all?"

Kirsten laughed, a sparkling sound like clear water. "All right," she conceded. "But I want you to know, I'm doing this for you, not for Sandy."

"Thanks, Kirsten."

"Anytime, sweetie. So do you know what time you'll be home?"

Ryan hesitated, glancing up at opaque prison door. "Not exactly," he hedged. "I think we've got one more meeting after this."

"And you'll get to go with Sandy to that one?"

Shading his eyes, Ryan turned away from the entrance and squinted toward the horizon. "I hope so, yeah," he answered softly.

"I hope so too. Just give me a call when the meeting is over so I can place our order. By the way, Ryan, do you want anything special or should I just get your usual?"

Ryan blinked, startled. "I have a usual?"

"Lasagna and meatballs with extra breadsticks, and coffee gelato for desert," Kirsten recited immediately. "That's right, isn't it?"

"That's . . . yeah, that's totally right. How did you know that?"

Kirsten's tone, warm and intimate, wrapped around Ryan like an embrace. "It's one of the things I've learned recently, sweetie—how important it is to pay attention to the people we love . . . And I can't wait to hear all about your day when you get home."

"Yeah. Home," Ryan murmured. Behind him, he heard the door groan open, breaking the spell of their conversation. "I've got to go, Kirsten," he said hastily, eager to hang up before any ambient sounds suggested his location. "I'll call you when we're done, okay? Bye."

Scrambling to his feet, Ryan turned, hoping to see Sandy waiting at the door, but instead several guards exited. At the sight of their uniforms, Ryan instinctively moved out of the way, pressing himself flat against the wall as they pushed past. One of them looked back as he went down the stairs, raking his eyes curiously over Ryan. His mouth dry, his breath faltering, Ryan dropped his own gaze and stood motionless until the men disappeared in the direction of the parking lot.

It was a shift change, he told himself sternly. That's all.

Still, it took Ryan several minutes to compose himself, to dispel the sick, claustrophobic feeling churning his stomach. He balled his hands into fists, smiling bitterly. No wonder Sandy hadn't wanted him to wait inside. Even outdoors, with no walls around him, just the sight of guards made him react as if he were in prison himself.

Ryan had thought he was stronger than that.

Ashamed, he finally sat down again, clutching the phone, his finger automatically punching in another number.

"Pick up, Seth," he muttered as the phone rang, and then sighed in relief when he heard the talk button click on.

"Yo, what up, Mack Daddy?" Seth asked in his best white rapper voice.

Ryan's brows furrowed in confusion. "What up, Mack Daddy?" he repeated dubiously.

"Or, you know, Hi, Dad. What's going on? . . . Whoa, wait. Ryan? That you, man?"

"Hey, Seth."

"So . . . 'sup, dawg? Puttin' minutes on da man's cell while he do his law and order thang? Shit, man, that cool."

A cautious smile slowly crept into Ryan's voice. "Seth, you do know that you can't pull that off, right?"

Seth heaved a self-pitying sigh. "The playa act's not working for me?"

"Yeah, not so much."

"Well, hey, thought I'd give it a shot. You know, change it up a little."

Just from Seth's voice, Ryan could visualize him collapsed carelessly on a couch in the Harbor lounge, a mug in one hand, legs stretched out and sneakered feet propped on the coffee table. Somehow the image eased Ryan's own clenched muscles.

"My advice?" he replied. "Change it back, Seth."

"Huh. So now certain people are critics. Even though those same certain people pretended to be someone they're not on the phone today," Seth observed pointedly. "I'm thinking double standard here, dude."

Ryan closed his eyes and imagined himself back in Sandy's car on their way to lunch, trying to recapture that sense of buoyancy and untroubled play. "Got it, Seth," he said. "I wasn't funny. And you were pissed. We already covered all that."

"So right you weren't funny," Seth agreed decisively. "And don't say pissed, Ryan. Oh, wait—Mom's not around, so yeah, pissed it is. Actually more confused than pissed right now. You know, this morning when I said that you'd need to call me during the day? See, that was a joke. I figured Dad would keep you—okay, entertained is totally the wrong word, but busy at least. What's the deal, buddy?"

Ryan swallowed and steadied his voice. "Yeah, well," he said vaguely, "Sandy's in a meeting. I'm waiting for him. There's sort of nothing to do right now, so I thought I'd check and see if anything interesting happened at school today."

"If anything interesting happened at school?" Seth echoed incredulously. "Dude! You are so channeling Dad at the dinner table. And that, by the way? Is pretty damn scary." Ryan heard Seth muffle the phone and mutter something that sounded like "later" and "without me." Then his voice returned. "Okay, it's truth time, man. Why the call? Wait, make that calls, because if I remember correctly, we just talked, like, twenty minutes ago. You and Dad didn't get into an argument or anything, did you?"

Grinding a lump of dirt under his thumb, Ryan glanced at the prison door before answering. "We didn't argue. Honestly, Seth, your dad's with a client. But listen, if you've got a meeting or something--"

"Let me think. A meeting or something? Actually, Ryan, I have many somethings scheduled this afternoon. But I think I can spare you, oh, say, five minutes of my valuable time. Appropriate compensation to be arranged later, of course."

There was a brief silence.

"O. . . kay," Seth drawled. "And now we're down to four minutes and forty-five seconds. Ryan, you called me, remember? That should mean—and I know this is uncharted territory for you—that you start the conversation. With actual words."

"Right." Stuck for a subject, Ryan asked weakly, "So, did I miss anything at school today?"

"Hmm. And that was your second school-based question in three minutes, buddy. Although really, it's pretty much the same question, just phrased a little differently."

"Yeah, so? It's conversation."

"Totally bogus conversation. Ryan Atwood, requesting a Harbor update? Is bizzaroworld strange. I'm just saying." Seth's skeptical tone made it clear that he was squinting dubiously. "What did you think you might miss anyway?"

"I don't know, Seth. You're the one there."

"True!" Seth exclaimed. His attitude changed, vaulting to sudden enthusiasm. "That is so true, dude. I'm the one here, the embedded reporter if you will, coming to you live from the Harbor lounge." Seth deepened his voice, and Ryan could hear him moving, as if he were starting to pace the room. "It's a shame we don't have video transmission, Ryan, because the conditions here are dire and there's just no way to describe the chaos."

Ryan reached a hand behind his neck, kneading at a stubborn knot. "You're saying there's chaos in the Harbor lounge?"

"Words can't convey the devastation, Ryan," Seth claimed with a dramatic sigh. "The espresso machine broke down about thirty-five minutes ago and since then, people have been reduced to drinking regular coffee. Or, you know, any of the forty flavors of soft drinks, chai tea, or bottled water available. You can imagine the pain and suffering. I'm with one of the victims now . . . Young lady, can you tell us how you feel having to drink—what is that now? Oh God, it's plain water, isn't it?"

Summer's protest rang through the phone. "You're insane, Cohen, you know that? And give me back my water. Right. Now!"

"Ow!" Seth yelped, before he restored his newscaster voice. "Ryan, as you can tell, people here are on edge. There's the constant threat of violence as supplies dwindle—Summer, let go! Come on, woman, that hurts—"

Ryan heard the phone drop, a heated exchange as it seemed to change hands several times, and then Seth's breathless voice.

"I'm sorry, Ryan. The situation here is deteriorating rapidly and officials say we have to evacuate now . . . Right, Summer, I'm coming! . . . So, want me to call you back when I get home?"

"No, that's okay," Ryan answered. "Sandy's meeting should be over soon."

"Yeah?" Seth prompted, sounding abruptly uncertain. "You sure?"

"It's fine, Seth."

"But tonight you'll tell me what's really going on, right?"

For a moment, Ryan considered bluffing, claiming nothing was wrong, but Seth's voice, anxious and expectant, compelled the truth. "Yeah. I will," he promised. "See you later, Seth. And hey, say hello to Summer for me."

He hung up, shifting position uncomfortably as he tried to wedge himself into a sliver of shade.

Time limped on.

It felt to Ryan as if he had been waiting forever, although when he checked, he saw that Sandy had only been gone thirty-two minutes. Just as he started mulling whom to call next, his finger rejecting Marissa's number, the prison door swung open, and a woman stumbled out. She fumbled blindly for the banister, missing it and the first step as she started down the stairs. Instinctively, Ryan jumped to his feet, catching her just as she was about to fall.

"Are you all right?" he asked.

The woman wrenched herself away from him. "Leave me alone!" she hissed, her palms jerking up to ward him off. "Let go of me!"

"Sorry," Ryan stammered. "I'm sorry . . ." His voice trailed off into a shamed whisper, and he retreated, slowly and awkwardly.

The woman's face crumpled as she watched him. "Ah no," she moaned, circling his wrist with a shaky hand. "You were being nice, trying to help. I shouldn't have snapped at you, made you feel bad . . . It's this place, you know? My Gerald is here and . . . I just . . . I can't--"

Without warning, the woman sagged, her body heaving with sobs. For a moment, Ryan stood rigid. Then, careful not to move too close, he put a cautious arm around her shoulders, feeling his own throat constrict.

He didn't hear the door open a third time, or Sandy's sharp intake of breath.

"Ryan? Ryan?"

The sound of Sandy's troubled voice finally penetrated. Ryan looked up, his expression was glazed and desolate, one hand still clasped in the woman's, the other patting her back.

"What's wrong? Are you okay?" Sandy asked, his eyes darting from Ryan to the woman, who began mopping her face and trying to catch her breath.

Ryan shrugged helplessly and his voice was thick when he answered. "Yeah," he said. "I'm fine. But she's not."

Stepping between them, Sandy gently disengaged her from the boy's arms. He took a moment to cup the back of Ryan's neck, his fingers kneading tenderness and approval, before turning his attention back to the woman.

"Just give me a minute," he urged over his shoulder.

Ryan watched as Sandy walked the woman down the stairs, murmuring to her. He saw her fists clench, her face twisted with anguish, saw Sandy dig out a card and thrust it in her hand, saw her shake her head and try vainly to return it, saw Sandy's reassuring smile, his confident stance, the way he stood his ground until the woman tucked the card in her purse and nodded tearfully.

Just before she turned to go, the woman looked up at Ryan and waved a tentative apology. He took a shuddering breath and forced himself to return the gesture, although his own hand felt lifeless as he lifted it and fell almost immediately back to his side.

As soon as the woman was two yards away, Sandy bounded back up the stairs. "Mrs. Crespo told me to thank you for your help," he reported.

"I didn't do anything," Ryan objected. "You did, though, didn't you? Or you're going to?"

"Social Services has been threatening to take her kids. I just said I'd make a few calls." Sandy reached over and finger-combed Ryan's damp hair off of his forehead. "It's all set, kid," he declared quietly. "If you still want to, we can see Trey now."

Ryan's eyes darted up and back down again, too quickly for Sandy to read their expression.

"I still want to," he said.

TBC


	6. Chapter 6

_Sorry, no Seth in this chapter, not even on the phone. So expect nothing funny. This one is all angst, all the time._   
In His Shadow, Part 6: The Visit 

Ryan walked silently next to Sandy, a plastic visitor's badge tapping his chest with each step. Out of the corner of his eye, Sandy watched the boy's progress.

Something about Ryan's deliberate steps, his downcast gaze, conjured a faint, unfocused image. It took a moment for Sandy to recognize: at a circus in Brooklyn when he was maybe thirteen, he had seen that a tightrope walker look the same way, rapt concentration boring straight through the ground from his precarious perch far above. No net offered safety between the thin wire and the sawdust-strewn floor.

There was no net now.

Sandy had to provide something to break Ryan's fall. Just in case.

"So, kid," he asked casually, as they waited for a guard to unlock the visitors' door, "Seth have anything to say when you called?"

Ryan seemed confused for a moment. Then a dim smile filtered through the cloud shading his eyes. "Seth? Yeah, he kind of always has something to say."

"That he does," Sandy agreed with fond amusement. "So let me qualify the question. Anything interesting, I mean."

"Well," Ryan mused, "Apparently, the espresso machine at Harbor broke down and kids were upset because they had to drink regular coffee. . . Okay, that sounds really stupid. It's only interesting the way Seth tells it."

Sandy nodded, grinning. "He does have a way of . . . embellishing the ordinary, doesn't he? And what about Kirsten?"

Metal grated against metal somewhere nearby, the harsh sound reminding them both exactly where they were. Ryan shuddered, crossing his arms over his chest. His breathing grew labored, ratcheting off the cement walls, and his eyes locked on the door the same way they would on a coiled snake that may or may not be poisonous.

"Ryan?" Sandy prompted as the guard approached. Despite himself, a note of urgency crept into his voice. "Did you talk to Kirsten?"

"What?"

The guard opened the door and waved them through. Instinctively, Sandy placed his hand on Ryan's back. "Kirsten," he repeated, his fingers pressing gently. "You called her, right kid?"

Ryan swallowed and shook his head slightly. "Oh. Oh yeah," he murmured, following the guard to yet another closed door, watching while he punched in the code. "She promised she'd order from Luigi's."

"Well, that's not why I asked. But still, good to know. So what do you say we have a family dinner tonight. Just the four of us. Maybe watch a movie afterwards, play a round of Trivial Pursuit--the Baby Boomer edition, so I have a chance. And who knows? Seth might be willing to regale us with the saga of Harbor's broken espresso machine."

Sandy kept talking as he guided Ryan into the private visitors area, filling the room with words until they came to an abrupt stop at the sight of Trey. He was already sitting at a table, his shoulders hunched, his mouth screwed to one side. Behind him, another guard stood grimly.

"Ten minutes, Mr. Cohen," he announced. "That's it."

"That's fine," Sandy replied. "I appreciate the warden allowing this on such short notice." He summoned a smile, but the guard didn't respond, didn't blink, didn't acknowledge his comment at all.

For a few moments, no one said anything. The second-hand of the clock on the wall ticked and stopped, ticked and stopped, ticked and stopped, timing the silence.

Finally, Trey took a deep breath. "So. Little brother," he intoned heavily. "This is a surprise." He half-rose from his chair and Ryan flinched, hands jamming into fists, before he caught himself. At the same time, Sandy and the guard each took a step forward.

"No physical contact," the guard growled.

Trey froze. "Right. Yeah. No problem." Lifting his palms in a gesture of surrender, he slumped back in his chair. After a moment, Ryan sat down too. He hitched his seat forward, back, and half an inch forward again, risking one quick glance at his brother, but saying nothing. Sandy pulled out the other chair, then frowned and changed his mind. He moved to stand behind Ryan, narrowly appraising Trey over the boy's head.

Trey nodded, flushing slightly under the scrutiny. "Mr. Cohen. It's, um, good to see you."

"Trey," Sandy replied. His empty voice offered nothing—no concern, no curiosity, no forgiveness. He rested both hands lightly on Ryan's shoulders, making sure Trey saw the gesture, and that Ryan felt it.

Trey squirmed and scratched his eyebrow. "Well, hell, this is damned awkward, isn't it?" He attempted a laugh that vaporized as soon as it met the air. "I gotta admit, Ry. I sort of figured me and you? We were done this time. Never expected you'd show up here."

Ryan lifted his eyes just enough to meet his brother's. "I came to see you before," he recalled dully. "At the hospital."

Trey jerked, startled. "You did that? Really?"

"Yeah. A few times." Ryan shrugged, studying his tightly laced fingers. "It was stupid, I suppose. You were in a coma. You didn't even know."

A rush of raw emotion momentarily transfigured Trey's face. "Man," he mumbled. "You fucking came to the hospital." His voice cracked on the last word and he coughed, pounding his knuckles against his teeth before speaking again. "I figured I spent all that time alone. That's . . . shit, that's something, Ry, you visiting me. . ."

"Yes," Sandy agreed. "It is something, Trey. I'm glad you realize that."

Both brothers flinched in surprise at Sandy's comment, his cold, incisive tone. Ryan swiveled in his seat. "Sandy?" he asked anxiously.

"It's okay, kid." Sandy emphasized his answer with a reassuring squeeze of Ryan's shoulders, but his eyes, icy and unrelenting, continued to skewer Trey.

"Mr. Cohen--" Trey stammered. "Look, I know what you must think of me--"

Sandy silenced him with a crease of his brows. "What I think doesn't matter. Talk to Ryan," he ordered.

"Yeah. All right. Yeah." Blowing out a sputtering breath, Trey rocked back. His fingers erratically drummed on the tabletop. "I don't get it, Ry," he admitted at last. "After everything that went down between us, why would you visit me the hospital? Why are you here now? You want something? 'Cause shit, man, look around. I got nothing to give."

Ryan started to answer, swallowed, started again. "You're my brother," he replied. "I had to know . . ."

"What?"

Helplessly, Ryan hunched one shoulder, ducking his head. "If you'd be all right," he mumbled into a fold of his sweater. "The doctors kept saying . . . you might never wake up."

"I was that bad, huh?"

"Yeah," Ryan answered. "They thought you might . . ."

He broke off, staring as Trey's palm searched below his shoulder, settling on the spot where the bullet exited. Unconsciously, Ryan mimicked the gesture. When he realized what he was doing, his fist closed, and he pulled it down to the table, locking it inside his other hand.

"Die," Trey concluded flatly. He paused for a moment, plucking orange fabric away from his chest. At last, with studied nonchalance, he spoke again. "When you visited me, you ever say anything, Ry?"

Ryan frowned, confused. "No, I . . . what do you mean?"

"On some TV show or something, I remember they said you should talk to people in comas. Helps them get better." Trey's eyes narrowed, searching Ryan's face. "Can't remember ever hearing you, though."

"I never said anything," Ryan admitted. "I just . . . I sat there, that's all."

Trey's lips twisted bitterly. "So you were—what? Just checking to see if I'd kicked it yet? Was that the deal, little brother?"

Ryan snapped upright, shock singing each cheekbone. "No," he argued. "I was worried--"

Trey threw back his head. "No shit," he scoffed with weary disgust. "You got the whole Atwood family threatening to fuck up your sweet life, don't you, little brother? Mom's out there somewhere—never know when she might turn up again. And Dad—hell, he might actually make parole one of these days. At least if I died there'd be one less Atwood who could screw you over--"

"Fuck you, Trey." Ryan hissed.

The words, low and lethal, exploded around a choked sob. They echoed in the sudden silence. Shoving his chair back, Ryan stumbled blindly to his feet. Sandy's arms caught him as he whirled around.

"Hey, hey, kid, whoa. Slow down," he urged. Over Ryan's head, Sandy's eyes flashed a warning to Trey and a plea to the guard, immobilizing them both. The guard stopped inches away from the door, his hand poised to open it, and Trey froze, his body pitched forward, his expression dazed as he watched Ryan struggle within Sandy's embrace.

Lowering his voice so only Ryan could hear Sandy crooned, "Come on, buddy. Calm down." He rubbed Ryan's back rhythmically. "You okay now? Yeah? Talk to me, Ryan. You okay?"

Ryan nodded into Sandy's shoulder. "Trey," he panted. "God, he's such an asshole."

Sandy chuckled softly and eased his hold just a little. "You get no argument from me, kid."

"I didn't," Ryan began. He swallowed convulsively and forced the words out, "I didn't want him to die."

"I know you didn't."

Ryan raised his eyes. Underneath his spiked lashes, they were muddy with despair. "But I wanted to kill him, Sandy," he whispered. "That night, when I found out. . . I could have done it."

Sandy touched his forehead to Ryan's. Then he stepped back, almost, but not quite, releasing his grip. "I know that too," he admitted.

Shuddering, Ryan scanned the room behind Sandy, the blank, solid walls, the small, grilled, window. "It could have been me," he confessed. "When we were fighting . . . if Trey hadn't gotten the upper hand, I could be the one in here now."

Denial shadowed Sandy's face, but he didn't argue. He waited.

A full minute passed before Ryan could speak again. When he did, his tone was hollow. "I keep telling myself I would have stopped before it was too late. But I don't know, Sandy. Maybe I wouldn't. It's in me—everything that's in Trey. It's in me too."

"No," Sandy countered sharply. "It's not."

Ryan dropped his head, shook it into Sandy's shoulder. "I want to believe you. But I don't know, Sandy," he repeated hopelessly.

"Listen to him, Ry. He's right." Rough-edged and heavy, Trey's words rumbled across the room.

At the sound of his brother's voice, Ryan tensed. His fingers splayed before knotting together and a muscle jumped under the skin of his jaw, but he didn't turn around.

"Shit, Ryan, what the hell do you think happened that day?" Trey demanded. "You let up. I could see it in your eyes, man—you wanted to kill me. But you had a chance when I was down, and you didn't take it. So . . . I did." He paused, but Ryan just stood, rigid and unresponsive. "You and me? We're different people, all right?" Trey insisted. "God, Ry, this is so fucked up. I didn't mean . . . Look, just . . . come back, okay? Don't leave like this."

Sandy's gaze raked over Trey, then returned to Ryan. He cupped a hand lightly around the boy's neck. "It's up to you, kid. We can go home," he suggested. "Anytime you want. Just say the word. You do not have to do this."

Ryan closed his eyes, opened them. "Yeah, Sandy I do," he replied. Carefully, quietly, he picked up the chair he had knocked to the floor and replaced it at the table. Then he sat down again, folding his arms over his chest.

"Fuck, man," Trey muttered. "I'm sorry. Just forget all that shit I said before, all right?"

"Why?" Ryan asked tonelessly. "You meant it. You think I wanted you dead to make my life easier."

Trey exhaled a shamed protest. "No, Ry. I mean, okay, I know that's what it sounded like."

"That's not what it sounded like," Sandy argued. Abruptly, he pulled back the chair next to Ryan and sat down. His relentless stare blazed across the table, incinerating the last of Trey's bravado. "It's exactly what you said."

"Mr. Cohen," Trey stammered. "Okay, yeah, I suppose, but it's not what I meant."

"No?" The word was a challenge. "Then explain what you meant. To your brother, not to me."

Trey picked at a scab on one of his knuckles. "Shit, I just . . . Okay, listen, Ry. I'm fucking glad you were there, at the hospital. But I can't figure why the hell you would bother. Not after . . . everything. You should have wanted me dead." Crusted skin shredded under his nails, reopening the cut below. One perfect drop of blood formed, followed by another. Trey started to rub them away with his cuff.

Ryan winced. "Wait," he urged. He fished in his pocket, but his hand emerged empty. "Sorry . . . I thought I had--"

"Here," Sandy pressed a handkerchief into Ryan's palm. "Trey can use this. It's clean."

His lips crimping, Ryan nodded his gratitude and slid the square of cloth across the table to his brother. Their fingers touched for a moment as Trey took the handkerchief.

"Thanks," he said gruffly.

"Atwood!" the guard barked. Both Ryan and Trey recoiled and snatched their hands back. "Five more minutes."

Trey's eyes flicked to the clock on the wall. "Yeah, got it," he acknowledged grimly. "Look, Ryan--"

"I went to the hospital because I hoped you would wake up," Ryan blurted. He never lifted his gaze from Trey's wounded hand. "I wanted my brother back. It doesn't even make sense, because I hated you--"

"Yeah, that much I figured. You still do, right?"

Ryan's mouth moved, testing his answer before he spoke. "Sometimes," he admitted. "I hate what you did, Trey. But . . . I can't always make myself hate you. It would be easier if I could." He sketched an ironic half-smile that faded before it could reach his eyes. "Guess we have that in common. You feel the same way about me, don't you?"

"Yeah," Trey muttered. He peeled the handkerchief off his knuckles and studied the Rorschach blot formed by his blood. Then he cocked his head, raising his eyes to Ryan's. "Actually, no," he amended. "It's not the same, Ry. I never hated you."

Disbelief thinned Ryan's lips. His hands moved reflexively to curl around his own neck.

Catching the gesture, Trey flushed. "I didn't," he insisted. "Not even then. Shit, little brother, don't you get it? Seeing you with the Cohens, the way you were living, the way they care about you—it fucking hurt, all right? Knowing the only reason they let me hang around was because of you."

"Trey--" Sandy interjected.

"What?" Trey demanded. "I got that wrong, Mr. Cohen?"

Sandy surveyed him evenly. "No," he conceded, "you're right. We did welcome you because of Ryan. We thought—I thought—I knew what was best for both of you. I was wrong."

Trey shrugged. "Yeah. Well. You didn't know me. But you, Ry—hell, you know me better than anybody on earth. And you didn't want me around. You got any idea how that made me feel?"

Ryan inhaled sharply and nodded, ashamed.

"I felt like shit," Trey recalled harshly. "Every. Goddamn. Minute. Like every move I made was a test. Like I should ask your permission to fucking breathe."

"I know," Ryan admitted. He put one fist on top of the other, pounding them together softly. "But I was scared, Trey. I thought once you saw how the Cohens lived, you'd . . . you know, be tempted and--"

"Fuck things up for you. Yeah. I got that, Ry."

"No. Fuck things up for you," Ryan countered. "God, Trey, you were on parole. And I knew how easy it was to screw up because I'd done it. So yeah, I was scared you'd do something stupid that would get you sent back to . . ." Abruptly, he bit off the last word, but they all heard it anyway.

Trey's mouth contorted, pulling to one side. "Right. Prison. And whaddya know? Here I am."

There was a long silence, filled with nothing but the passing of time. Finally Trey continued, his voice drifting from someplace far away. "You know the worst thing, Ry? There you were, with a brand-new family. Friends. A future. And me? I had nothing."

Ryan swallowed, grimacing helplessly. "Trey--"

"Nothing," Trey insisted. "Not even my brother. So yeah, I resented the hell out of you. But it was never hate, Ry. Not on my side."

Ryan shook his head, a warning and a plea. "Don't," he whispered. "Don't lie to me, Trey." He struggled with the words, trying to keep his voice even. "You hurt Marissa. You pulled a gun on me. You would have killed me. You told the police I shot you. That's got to be hate."

For a moment Trey clenched his eyes shut, breathing shallowly between his teeth. "Damn it, Ry!" he cried suddenly. His hands had been clutching the arms of his chair in a death grip. Suddenly they shot forward, slamming flat on the tabletop.

"Atwood!" the guard cautioned. He stepped closer and Sandy stood up, one hand protectively on Ryan's shoulder.

Trey ignored them both. "You think I wouldn't undo all of that if I could?" he demanded. His voice was low, gravelly and urgent. "I was so fucked-up, man, that night with Marissa. And then when you found out . . . the way you looked at me—like you didn't even know me, like I was every asshole Mom ever brought home. I couldn't stand it, Ry. And I just . . . I went crazy. God, if you had only left when I asked--"

"What the hell are you talking about, Trey? Are you trying to say this was all Ryan's fault?" Sandy's voice snapped through the room, incredulous and icy with disdain.

"No, Sandy, it's okay," Ryan said quietly. "He's right. I should have left. I wish to God that I had. But when I started to go . . . I don't know. Something just snapped . . ."

"Yeah. In me too. Ryan?" Trey ducked his head, squinting intently, trying to compel Ryan to look at him. "Ry? Fuck, man, I don't even know how to say this. Look, it's just . . . I'm still your brother. All right?"

Ryan nodded tersely, unable to answer.

Something seemed to dissolve inside Trey. His muscles went slack and he slumped down in his seat. "Hell, if you can't forgive me, I get that, Ry," he murmured. "It's not like I can fucking forgive myself either. This . . ." He touched his chest again, stabbing a finger into the spot of the old wound. "Shit, Ry, having Marissa shoot me? It sounds so damned twisted, but I swear, I'm glad she did. It's better than having to live with what I might have—would have—done to you . . ."

"On what, Trey?" Ryan demanded.

Trey shook his head, bewildered.

"What do you swear on?" Ryan persisted. "Last time you swore on Mom, and I believed you. But turns out, you were lying. Why should I believe you this time?"

"Because." Trey lifted his chin, looking candidly at Sandy before facing his brother. "This time I swear on us," he said. "On who we were back in Fresno. You and me, Ry. You remember?"

"Time, Atwood," the guard announced abruptly.

Ryan's head snapped up. "What? No." he protested. "Just a few more minutes. Could we . . . please?"

The guard frowned, already gesturing a refusal.

"You know," Sandy observed equably, "According to my watch, that clock is about three-four minutes fast. Maybe if it wouldn't present any problems, we could split the difference?"

"The deal was a ten minute visit, Mr. Cohen."

"True," Sandy conceded. "But they haven't spent that much time actually talking. And this might be the last chance they get for . . . a while. Look, I'd really appreciate any help you could give us here. We all would."

The guard scanned all of their faces, considering. "Fine," he agreed. "Two more minutes. That's it." He retreated, deliberately turning his back on the clock.

There was a brittle silence, brokenly by Sandy's gentle prompting, "Ryan? You had something you wanted to say?"

"Yeah," Ryan affirmed vaguely. He was staring at the handkerchief that Trey had discarded in a stained, wadded heap. Reaching for the nearest corner, he started to drag the cloth across the table.

Sandy cupped a hand over Ryan's to stop the movement. "Kid, don't," he urged.

Ryan blinked. With an effort he dropped the handkerchief, knotting his fingers around each other instead.

"Just talk, all right?"

"All right," Ryan agreed distantly. Inclining his head, he gazed past his brother's shoulder, somewhere into their shared past. "I remember who we were in Fresno, Trey." His lips curved in a fleeting, wistful smile. "But it was a long time ago. Too much has happened. We're never gonna be those kids again."

Trey's mouth crimped. "So what does that mean, Ry? You leave now and we're done?"

"No. We can't be done," Ryan replied. He sounded surprised, and his eyes, teeming with memory, returned to meet Trey's. "You said it yourself. You're my brother. I'm just not sure what that means anymore."

"Okay." Trey paused, took a deep breath and continued more firmly, "Okay. But if you ever want to figure it out . . . hell, you know where to find me, right?" He produced a shaky, sardonic grin, but the façade slowly cracked as he waited for Ryan's answer. "Anytime, Ry," he pleaded. "I really . . . I don't want to lose you, man. Not again."

Ryan swallowed. He glanced up Sandy, his face a question etched in longing and doubt.

"Whatever you decide, kid," Sandy answered softly. "I don't know Trey. You do. But I'll support you either way."

Ryan started to say something, stopped, and braced himself to try again.

"Time," the guard declared. Crossing the room in two heavy steps, he placed an insistent hand under Trey's elbow, prodding him upright.

Trey tensed, but he pushed himself to his feet. "Thanks for coming, Ry," he said tonelessly. "Mr. Cohen. Thank you for . . . everything you've done for my brother." He started to extend his hand, caught himself, and snatched it back.

"Atwood. Let's go."

Trey glanced at Ryan, his expression empty. Shaking his head, he turned to follow the guard.

"I'll come back," Ryan blurted.

"What?" Trey froze, halfway to the door.

Ryan stood up, gripping the edge of the table. "I'll come back," he repeated. "Maybe not right away. But I will, Trey. I swear." Slowly, he raised one hand, a vow and a farewell.

Trey nodded, his eyes glistening. "Good," he whispered. "That's really . . . that's good." Exhaling a wary smile, he mirrored Ryan's gesture, mutely making his own promise. "So . . . I gotta go. You take care of yourself. I'll see you, little brother."

Rolling his shoulders back, Trey lifted his chin and walked out, striding firmly ahead of the guard. Ryan and Sandy watched while the door closed behind them.

Across the room, the visitors' door slid open.

"Mr. Cohen?" The admitting guard called. "You ready?"

Sandy cupped the back of Ryan's neck. "What do you say, son?" he asked. "You ready to call it a day?"

Ryan sighed and sagged against Sandy for just a moment. "Oh, yeah," he admitted. "But Sandy . . . thanks for this. Really. It meant a lot."

Patting his back in reply, Sandy steered Ryan out of the room. Wordlessly, they trailed the guard down the long hallway to the check-in area. Ryan unpinned his visitors badge, handed it to the clerk, and initialed next to his name on the clipboard. "So we're going home now?" he asked. There was a note of exhausted relief in his voice. "Kirsten said I should call her when we're on our way."

Sandy paused, his own badge dangling from his fingers. "Actually," he mused, "there's something I'd like to do. You up for one more stop, kid?"

Ryan shrugged, smiling wryly, although he looked slightly disappointed. "I'm your shadow, remember? Plus, you've got the car keys. Do I have a choice?"

"Well, when you put it that way . . ." Sandy chuckled. "But yes, you do have a choice." He returned his badge and completed the sign-out forms, glancing at his watch. "I'm declaring my work day officially over. One of the perks of being self-employed. So you're off the clock, shadow, and you can veto the whole idea if you want. Although I guarantee it won't take long."

"Okay, I guess, but, um . . . Sandy?" Ryan frowned quizzically. "You haven't told me what the idea is."

Sandy wagged his eyebrows. He opened the exit door, and sunlight immediately washed over their faces, welcoming them and warming them both.

"Let's call it your extra credit assignment."

TBC


	7. Chapter 7

In His Shadow, Part 7: The Stop 

"Hey, you awake over there, kid?"

As he slid into the car, Sandy nudged Ryan who sat slumped in the passenger seat. His eyes were closed, his head cradled awkwardly against the window.

Ryan blinked and straightened, shivering as though caught by a sudden chill wind. "What?" he replied distantly. "Oh . . . yeah. Just thinking, Sandy."

"Ah, thinking. Got it. Well, here, some caffeine might help that process." Sandy handed Ryan a jumbo coffee and placed his own into the cup holder.

Sighing gratefully, Ryan clasped his hands around the Styrofoam. He drained half its contents in one swallow. "Thanks," he murmured. "And thanks for giving me a few minutes alone. I kind of needed it."

"No problem." Sandy fingered his car keys, apparently hesitant to start the engine. "So," he said, producing a muffin from a bag, "I got you a nosh to go. Want it? I already ate mine inside."

Ryan eyed the oversized pastry with mild distaste. "Nah. Not really hungry. You can have it if you want . . . Are you going to tell me where we're going now, Sandy?"

"Depends." Sandy studied Ryan as he returned the muffin to its bag and blew stray crumbs off his fingers. The car keys dangled, ignored, from the ignition switch. "Are you going to tell me how you're feeling now? 'Cause I gotta say, the Atwood side of the car has been suspiciously quiet since we left Chino."

"The Atwood side of the car is always quiet compared with the Cohen side," Ryan retorted. "Well, when the male Cohens are there anyway."

"Hey!" Glowering with mock threat, Sandy shook a warning finger. "Do not try those diversionary tactics with me, buddy. I'm a lawyer, remember? We invented that game--or at least appropriated it from evasive kids." The teasing note in his voice vanished, replaced by grave sympathy. "Besides, the operative term there was 'suspiciously quiet.' Ryan, I know how rough it was for you to see Trey. But come on. You can talk to me."

Ryan glanced sideways, smiling crookedly. "I know." He ducked his head and peered into his near-empty cup intently reading non-existent tea leafs. "But I'm not sure how I feel, Sandy. Or how to describe it anyway."

"Fair enough," Sandy conceded. "How about if I throw some words out there and you tell me if any of them fit? Let's see . . . Angry? Confused? Overwhelmed? Drained?"

Ryan swallowed the last of his coffee. His thumb rubbed bruising circles around the lip of the cup. "Mostly . . . drained, I guess?" he admitted tentatively. "And maybe a little . . . afraid? No, that's not it exactly."

"Troubled? Anxious? Apprehensive?"

"Apprehensive." Ryan tested the word and grimaced slightly. "Yeah. I mean I'm glad I saw Trey. And now that I have, I can't just . . . not go back. But I still don't know if I can trust him, Sandy." He lowered his voice, talking to himself. Sandy had to strain to hear. "I'm not sure I trust me with him either. There's just . . . so much between us, you know?"

His forehead creasing thoughtfully, Sandy nodded. "I do know," he affirmed. "I also know your reaction makes perfect sense. You and Trey? You're going to need a lot of time and support to work things out, Ryan."

"If we even can."

"If you even can," Sandy agreed. "But I give you credit for trying, kid. It takes guts—and loyalty—to put yourself on the line like that."

Ryan crushed his empty cup and stuffed it in the litterbag, leaving himself with nothing to hold. His hands flexed, grabbing air. "Sandy . . ." He hesitated. Then abruptly, he released a roiling torrent of words. "Am I betraying Marissa? Going to see Trey . . . what does that say to her, that I think what he did wasn't terrible, that I don't care about the pain he caused her. . .?"

"Of course not. Marissa will understand." Sandy predicted promptly. As soon as he heard his own words, though, he doubted them.

Since Trey regained consciousness, Sandy had watched Ryan and Marissa struggle to connect. They never quite managed it. Instead, they kept glancing off each other, pulled inexorably together and then instantly repelled as though the magnetic field around them kept shifting. Maybe, Sandy thought, it did. Obligation and desire, guilt and resentment, loyalty and suspicion, all those conflicting emotions bound in blood-colored memories . . . Sandy wondered if even Ryan and Marissa themselves understood what remained of their distorted relationship.

"You know what?" Sandy amended. "I take that back, kid. Marissa may not understand, at least not right away. But here's the thing. You can't live your life trying to protect her from the past. It's not possible, and it's not fair. Not to her, and definitely not to you."

"I'm not . . ." Ryan protested. Sandy's shrewd gaze pinioned him and he stopped, his cheeks stained a mottled red. "God, how do you do that?" he muttered. "I can't lie to you. This is what makes you such a good lawyer, right?"

Sandy grinned. "I like to think so."

"It's like you're a human lie detector or something." Ryan dropped his head back, blowing a defeated breath toward the ceiling. "I'm lucky you're on my side."

"Always, kid." Sandy reached over and kneaded Ryan's shoulder briefly. Then he chuckled. "Human lie detector, huh? You suppose Seth might turn me into a superhero for that Atomic County comic book that he's writing?"

"Graphic novel," Ryan corrected. "And yeah, Seth totally should. I'll talk to him about it."

Sandy frowned, considering. "On second thought, let's table that idea," he mused. "Knowing Seth, he'll give me one long, thick eyebrow. He used to do that when he was little and drew portraits of the family. There was Kirsten, with big blue eyes, gorgeous smile and golden hair, and there I was, looking like a demented ogre with a caterpillar crawling across my forehead."

"Yeah? How did Seth draw himself?"

"Hard to say," Sandy recalled. "Mostly, his face was hidden under a huge mop of curly hair."

"So, like a junior Jewfro, huh?" Ryan bit his lip and smiled wistfully. "I'd like to see one of those drawings. Did you keep any of them?"

"More like all of them. Kirsten even had a few of them framed, but Seth made her take them down when he got old enough to be embarrassed by what he called his 'kindergarten art.' I'll show them to you—as long as you promise you won't laugh at my unibrow."

"Absolutely." Ryan crossed his heart. "No laughing. I swear."

"Okay then." Very casually, as he started the car, Sandy asked, "So . . . you want to tell me about Fresno?"

On the verge of relaxing back against his seat, Ryan froze. "Fresno?" he echoed blankly.

"Trey reminded you about when you were kids in Fresno. It made a difference, Ryan, whatever happened there. You started to believe what he said after that."

"It was nothing," Ryan claimed. He shifted uneasily, fingers strangling the strap of his seatbelt.

"The human lie detector doesn't believe you. Look, kid, you don't have to explain. But you know how you said you don't quite trust Trey? Well, neither do I. I'd like to understand why you're willing to give him another chance."

"You already know why. He's my brother."

"Aw, Ryan," Sandy sighed. The words throbbed with compassion and regret. "It's more than that. I wish you trusted me enough to share what's going on in your head."

"I do," Ryan insisted. "I just . . . there are things I don't like to relive, that's all."

Sandy nodded. "I figured. But this is the way I see it. You're going to think about what Trey said anyway. At least if you talk to me, you won't face the memories alone."

Ryan looked bleakly at Sandy.

"Make sense, son?"

The gentle "son" seemed to breach an unseen barrier. Ryan swallowed hard. His eyes glazed over and he fixed them somewhere just beyond the horizon. "I was six," he began. He sounded detached, as if he were narrating a stranger's life story. "My folks had a bunch of friends over. They were playing cards, drinking. Shit, maybe doing drugs too, I don't know. And—Mom was flirting, I guess. At least my dad thought so. He kicked everyone out, and they got into a screaming match. He said . . . he said . . ." Ryan's voice thinned, trickled away.

"What, Ryan?" Sandy prompted quietly.

"He called Mom a fucking slut, said that probably I wasn't even his kid."

Sandy's breath hissed, but he didn't interrupt.

"I couldn't understand everything they were saying, but I remember hearing all this, this hate through our bedroom door. Trey was standing behind me. He had his arms around me. I remember . . . he was a lot taller than me, and the louder our parents yelled, the tighter he held me. Finally . . . the yelling just stopped. And they left."

"What?" Sandy demanded, startled.

Ryan shrugged. "We heard the door slam and our car pulling out. The driveway was gravel, so it made all this noise. And the car moved so fast, pebbles flew up and cracked our window . . . We caught hell for that later. Twice, actually, first for breaking the glass, then for saying it wasn't our fault."

Gripping the steering wheel, Sandy forced himself not to react. He waited. Eventually, Ryan continued.

"Mom was in the living room, crying and smashing stuff. I wanted to go to her, but Trey told me no, it was safer if we left her alone. After a while she got real quiet, so we just went to bed. Trey said she'd sleep it off probably. But in the morning . . . pretty much all our dishes were broken. And Mom was gone."

"I see." Sandy pronounced the words carefully. His mouth folded into a tight line before he spoke again. "When did your parents come back, Ryan?"

"Mom came back in eight days. We didn't see Dad for about a month."

"Oh." Eyes dark with comprehension, Sandy risked a glance at Ryan's profile. "So all that time, it was just you and Trey?"

Ryan seemed to shrink into himself. "Yeah," he whispered. "He wasn't even eleven, but he took care of me. He got me dressed, made sure I got to school so nobody would guess we were . . . alone. But then, on the fifth day . . . Trey was heating some soup. He went to take it off the stove and . . . I left some stupid toy on the floor. Some matchbox car or something. Trey tripped, and the soup spilled. He just . . . he screamed, Sandy. He was barefoot and I could see it was bad, but right away, he pretended like it was nothing."

With the word "nothing," Ryan stopped. Slowly, his hands clenched on his thighs, nails gouging the fabric of his pants, the flesh underneath. If it weren't for that movement, miniscule, torturous, Sandy would not have been sure that the boy was even breathing.

"What did you do, son?" he asked.

"Nothing." There was that word again. Ryan's voice wobbled, wan and very small. "I tried. I started to call 911, but Trey grabbed the phone. He said . . . if I did, he said Social Services would take us away. And maybe that wouldn't be so bad, but they'd split us up. Trey swore he'd never let that happen. And he didn't. He just put ice on his foot and kept going. But it hurt him so damn much. It hurt him so much, Sandy, and it was my fault. He still has the scar . . ."

You both do, Sandy thought, but all he allowed himself to say was, "Thank you for telling me, kid. I understand now why you won't give up on your brother."

Ryan lifted his eyes, scorched blue under his lashes. "I can't," he answered simply. He released a sibilant breath and dropped his gaze again.

Several minutes passed as they rode silently and Ryan's fists gradually unclenched. "You know what?" he observed at last. His tone lifted with surprise, and a phantom smile flitted across his face. "Telling you about it did help. Don't you ever get tired of being right, Sandy?"

Sandy grinned back, hoping to hold the connection. "I suppose I would if I were right all the time. But the truth is, Ryan, I'm not." As the car idled at a traffic light, he leaned over to confide, "Don't tell anyone, but sometimes I just get lucky."

"Lucky," Ryan repeated. "Yeah. Me too."

He rubbed the back of his neck and sighed wearily. Watching him, Sandy couldn't decide whether to bless or to curse the rescheduled hearing that had taken them to Chino. He could feel Ryan's exhausted relief that he and Trey both had survived their meeting—perhaps not unscathed, but at least intact. At the same time, though, Sandy sensed that the boy had reached his limit. He couldn't deal with any more memories, doubts, or obligations. Not today anyway.

If he were honest, Sandy thought wryly, he couldn't deal with them either.

"So I have an idea," he announced, signaling a turn. "I think we should reclaim our originally scheduled day and declare a moratorium on all Trey-related conversation for . . . oh, say, the next thirty-six hours. What do you think, kid?"

"Really?" Ryan asked. His eyes glinted eagerly, then narrowed with doubt. "No more probing questions?"

"Not a one," Sandy promised. "That is, unless you'd like to talk more."

Ryan crimped his lips and smothered a dry laugh. "Um . . . no. A moratorium sounds great." Straightening suddenly, he peered out the side window. "Hey, Sandy, where are we anyway?" he demanded. "You never did say where we were going."

Sandy smiled at the renewed animation in Ryan's voice. "Hmm . . . Didn't I?" he murmured innocently.

"No," Ryan replied, suspicion stretching out the single word. "But you're going to now, right?"

"Of course I will." On cue, the first notes of "Born to Be Wild" pounded through the car. Sandy raised an index finger. "Well, I will in a minute. Get that for me, okay, kid? You can put it on speaker."

"You're stalling," Ryan mouthed, but he switched on the phone. "Sanford Cohen, Esquire, mobile attorney-at-law. Ryan Atwood, answering service, speaking."

"Hey, dude!" Seth exclaimed. "So Dad put you to work, huh? Well, can't say I'm surprised. I'm warning you, Ryan, the man can be cunning. This is probably just another step in his nefarious master plan."

"Seth--"

"No, really, man. If you're not careful, before the day is over he'll work that famous Sandy Cohen mojo and sell you on a pre-law college major. You'll be lugging around two-ton books and starting conversations with 'In the matter of . . .' before you know it."

"Seth--"

"Caveat emptor, Ryan," Seth intoned, righteous and solemn. "I'm just saying."

Sandy cleared his throat portentously. "Just so you know, Seth, I can hear you."

There was a half-second of silence on Seth's end of the line before he exploded. "Where's the solidarity here, Ryan? Why didn't you signal me that the speaker was on?"

"Hey, I tried, man."

"Not very hard," Seth complained.

Sandy laughed. "A few words of advice, son: Cave quid dicis, quando, et cui."

"Cave quid di-what now?"

"Beware what you say, when, and to whom."

Over the phone, they could hear Seth harrumphing indignantly. "Well, that's just rude, Dad, throwing around foreign phrases that people can't be expected to know. Also, what's with using your answering service when you're obviously available to take a call? Just for that, I'm going to talk to Ryan. Dude, turn off the speaker."

"My phone," Sandy caroled, practically singing. "Speaker stays on."

An obvious sulk clipped Seth's reply. "Fine. Play the possession is nine-tenths of the law card. So . . . listen, bro, Mom's warming up her dialing finger, and I have a selection of video games all set for a challenge match before dinner. What's your ETA, RA? "

Ryan frowned, considering. "You know, that's a good question. Sandy? When will we be getting home?"

Sandy gave a noncommittal shrug. "Soon," he hedged.

"Soon," Seth repeated. "Right. Now would that be soon as in, we're about to pull into the driveway, or soon as in, I'm a lawyer, and I deal in billable hours, so pretty much any time between now and next Chrismukkah?"

"I mean soon," Sandy retorted. "Check a dictionary if you're not sure of the definition. Come to think of it, Seth, don't you have homework that should keep you occupied for a while?"

Seth groaned. "Yeah, only . . . okay, well, yeah. But see, I was aiming less for 'occupied,' which, by the way, totally sounds like a restroom that's being used, and more for 'amused and entertained.' Oh, and also fed, because I am starving here." For dramatic effect, he added a piteous whimper.

"Aw," Sandy crooned. "Poor kid. Tell you what, have a carrot."

"A carrot?" Seth sputtered incredulously. "That's supposed to sustain me? Homework and vegetables? Have you forgotten who I am? Ryan, remind Dad who I am."

Dutifully, Ryan faced Sandy. "He's Seth," he stated, straight-faced.

"So not what I meant, Ryan!"

"What? I did what you asked, Seth."

"All right boys," Sandy interjected. His eyes danced with satisfaction and he took a deep breath. Even the air in the car smelled different—clean and invigorating, as though a fresh breeze had borne away all the vapors trailing from ghosts and memories. "Seth, I know exactly who you are, which is why I am saying: have a carrot, do your homework, and tell your mother we'll give her a call when we're on our way home. We're hanging up now."

"But . . ."

"Now, son. See you soon."

Sandy nodded decisively and gestured to the "End" button. "Sorry, man," Ryan said, and switched off the phone along with Seth's defiant chant of "No justice, no peace."

Shaking his head, Sandy chuckled and reached over to turn on the CD player.

"Oh no," Ryan protested, blocking his hand. "Phone call's over. No more excuses. Where are we going, Sandy? You said you'd tell me."

"So I did," Sandy conceded. "Fair enough, kid. We're going, let's see now, oh, about a mile further north."

Ryan rolled his eyes. "Right. And what's a mile further north?"

"The place we're going."

"Yeah, I know. But what is it?"

"I didn't say I'd tell you what the place is. I said I'd tell you where we're going. And I did."

"Sandy! That's not fair. You're playing word games to avoid the question."

"Not at all." Sandy smiled smugly. "Asked and answered, counselor."

Folding his arms, Ryan shot Sandy a piercing sideways glare.

"Can't get me that way, buddy. I'm impervious," Sandy declared. "In fact, I should remind Seth that if he does turn The Human Lie Detector into a superhero, that's got to be another one of his powers. He can't be felled by Kid Chino's laser-sharp stares."

"They're supposed to be on the same side anyway," Ryan protested.

"Tell that to Kid Chino. He's the one shooting death rays out of his eyes."

Ryan glowered, slumping in his seat. "You know, Sandy," he muttered, "if I didn't know you were Seth's father, I'd still know you were Seth's father."

Sandy burst out laughing. "You sure you don't want to be a lawyer, Ryan? Because you're certainly picking up the circular speech patterns of the profession."

"I learned from the best. Come on, Sandy," Ryan urged. "Tell me. Where are we going?"

"Nowhere," Sandy answered, making a left-hand turn into a parking lot. "We're here." Grinning with anticipation, he stopped the car and sat back, watching for Ryan's reaction.

For a moment, Ryan just frowned quizzically at the nondescript building in front of them. Then he spotted the sign. "Okay," he said slowly. "I get it. I guess. Except . . . yeah, I really don't. What are we doing here, Sandy?"

"Just stopping by. Grab your briefcase, Ryan. Oh, and when we get to the office, wait outside, okay? I'll let you know when to come in."

Sandy strode across the parking lot, up the stairs and through the revolving doors so purposefully that Ryan almost had to jog to keep up. At the security desk, a guard waved them through the metal detector, examined their briefcases and shoved over a clipboard for them to sign in. It wasn't until Sandy handed it back that the man looked up to study their faces. Immediately, his face broke into a broad grin.

"Well, I'll be damned!" he exclaimed, coming around the table to clap Sandy on the back. "Sanford Cohen. Welcome back, man. It's been a while. And—hey, is this . . .?" The man gestured to Ryan and his smile widened.

"It is indeed," Sandy replied. "Fred, this is Ryan. Ryan, meet Fred Cochrane. Best security officer in southern California."

Ryan's polite "Nice to meet you" faded in surprise as his hand was swallowed up in Fred's two-fisted grip.

"Right back at you, Ryan," the guard declared heartily. "It's about time Sandy brought you here."

His eyes baffled, Ryan offered a crooked smile in response as Fred returned to his post.

"So . . . are they both in?" Sandy asked, nodding to the elevator.

"Oh yeah," Fred drawled. "Want me to call up, let them know that you're coming?"

"Nah. It's a surprise. Terrific to see you, Fred. Come on, Ryan."

Inside the elevator, Sandy fastened his gaze on the row of numbers, whistling and bobbing his head as each floor lit up in turn.

"Sandy, why did Fred recognize me?" Ryan's voice was tinged with suspicion. "And what did he mean . . ."

Before he could finish, the elevator door groaned open, and Sandy sprinted out and down the hallway.

"Ryan, remember," he whispered, "stay outside until you get my signal." Gesturing to a battered bench against the wall, he waited to make sure Ryan was seated before flinging the office door open, leaving it slightly ajar. "Spot inspection," he announced sternly. "Anybody working in this place? Pearl? Otis? I'm not interrupting your afternoon siestas, am I?"

"What the--? Sandy! Hey, man, great to see you. What brings you back to the trenches?"

Ryan could hear laughter, papers being shuffled, chairs scraping the floor, and then a woman's boisterous voice ordering, "Hold it right there! I don't see a bag in your hand, Sanford Cohen. Go, go, go away—you didn't bring bagels, we got no use for you here. Show the man out, Otis. He left us, he knows what he has to do to be allowed back in this office."

"Sorry, Sandy." The apology brimmed with amusement. "Pearl's right. You know the rules."

"Yeah, but just wait, both of you. I brought something better than bagels." With a flourish, Sandy strode to the doorway and gestured a bemused Ryan to his side.

In the instant after he entered the room, Ryan registered everything at once: the overcrowded space, the worn desks and chairs, their finish eroded by use, the bulging files covering almost every flat surface, the post-it notes and flyers dotting the walls. Facing him, looking as curious as he felt himself, were a tall, thin man wearing a rumpled jacket and a woman with untidy red hair anchored back from her face by neon purple glasses.

"Wait, is this--?" The woman yanked her glasses down, peered through them, and then pushed them back through a tangle of bangs. "Sanford Cohen, you don't mean to tell me that this is--?"

Sandy shoved his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels, cocking his head in Ryan's direction. "Yep, it is," he affirmed, grinning.

"I knew it! Ryan Atwood! You come right here, honeybunch! Gimme a smooch."

Before Ryan could move, the woman lunged across the room. She clapped her hands over both of his cheeks and dragged him toward her, planting a wet, hearty kiss on the bridge of his nose.

Stunned, Ryan swayed in place when she released him, blinking with bewilderment

"Holy shit, but he's handsome. The pictures you showed us do not do him justice." The woman nudged Sandy's side. "Bet you wish you could take credit for his good looks, huh?" Without pausing for an answer, she rounded back to Ryan. He took an involuntary half step backwards. At the sight of his wary expression, the woman slapped her own forehead with the heels of both hands. "Damn, Sandy! Look at the boy! What, you didn't tell him about me before you brought him here? Now he must think I'm some crazy lady who wants to jump his bones."

"She is some crazy lady, Ryan. But don't panic, she's harmless. Usually." The man at the other desk rolled his eyes at the woman and walked over, extending his hand. Ryan shook it reflexively. "I'm Otis Sempel. It's a pleasure to meet you. The tornado over there, blasting everything in her path, is Pearl Rosado."

Dazed, Ryan murmured an automatic greeting to both of them.

"Hughmanic-Rosado," Pearl corrected, scowling at Otis before turning to smile beatifically at Ryan. "But you can just call me Pearl, darlin'." She shoved a stack of files to the side of her desk and perched on top, patting the space next to her. "Come sit," she urged. "Might as well make yourself comfortable. You're in a room full of lawyers, sweetpea. We're bound to talk your ear off."

Ryan glanced at Sandy, whose lips quirked as he raised his palms and shrugged. Pearl beamed. She scooted over, making more room, and after a moment's hesitation Ryan eased down beside her.

"Well, Pearl will talk your ear off anyway," Otis amended. His voice was a warm baritone, dark as his skin. "She and Sandy and I go way back, Ryan. Believe it or not, he shared this cubbyhole with us when he was a PD."

"Yeah?" Ryan sat up straighter. "This was your office, Sandy?" Unconsciously, he stroked the surface of the shabby desktop beside his thigh.

"It was indeed." The corners of Sandy's eyes crinkled nostalgically as he looked around. "Of course, it was always more Grand Central Station than an office—rush in, grab some files, check messages, head out for another meeting."

"Ha! Listen to the man, trying to make it sound like all business, all the time." Pearl blew Sandy a kiss and sidled closer to Ryan. "Truth is, we shared a big chunk of our lives in this office. So, sugarbear," she confided, "that means we know all about you, even if Sandy didn't tell you about us."

Ryan's face clouded. "You . . . know me?" he asked cautiously.

"Oh shit, yeah. The whole department does," Pearl answered. She held up one hand, ticking items off on her fingers. "Ryan is really bringing Seth out of his shell. Ryan aced his entrance exam for Harbor. Ryan cooked this terrific dinner. Ryan's first-string on the soccer team. Ryan's taking AP courses. Ryan made honor roll."

Simultaneously rapt and self-conscious, Ryan listened to the litany. There were so many other things Sandy could have reported: Ryan picked a fight with Luke. Ryan got suspended from the soccer team. Ryan broke into school files. Ryan assaulted Oliver. Ryan impregnated an ex-girlfriend. Shifting uncomfortably, he started to object, when he saw Sandy nod, looking fond and proud. Ryan's breath caught, and he ducked his head, flushing.

"Pearl, you're embarrassing the boy," Otis interjected. "Don't mind her, Ryan. She overwhelms everybody. Thinks it's charming."

Pearl flounced in place and patted her hair. "Hell, Otis, first of all, it never hurts a kid to know his father is proud of him."

"Well, that's true," Otis agreed.

Ryan cast a quick, sideways glance at Sandy, who answered with a private smile.

"Second, you know I'm charming as hell. And a damn fine lawyer too."

"As you can tell, kid, Pearl's very modest," Sandy chuckled. "But to be fair, she is a damn fine lawyer. I'd say she sets the bar high, but she'd probably consider that a bad pun."

Pearl snorted. "Damn straight."

Casually, Sandy surveyed the office. "So," he asked, "things been busy around here?"

Otis sighed, indicating the towering stacks of files. "What you see, man. It never ends. Sometimes I think those folders reproduce overnight."

"Par for the course then, right?"

"Pretty much."

"Okay, whaddya want, Sandy?" Pearl demanded abruptly. She leaned toward Ryan, adding in a loud aside, "He stops by whenever he's having trouble with a case. See, Otis and I did all the heavy lifting here—poor guy just can't make it without our help."

Sandy laughed. "As a matter of fact, Pearl, you're right. I do want something."

"Ha! Knew it!"

"I've had some time on my hands lately, and thought you might have a couple cases you could throw my way. Pro bono, of course." Ryan's eyes widened incredulously at the phrase "time on my hands," but Sandy ignored his expression. "Of course," he teased, "I know you guys thrive on overwork, so you probably won't want to part with anything . . ."

Otis swept up a stack of files from his desk and deposited them in Sandy's arms. "Take your pick," he urged. "Or, hey, take them all if you want. Pearl and I are willing to sacrifice for a good cause."

"You're so generous," Sandy noted wryly. "But I think two cases will be enough for now." He hefted the first few files individually, and then put the two thickest folders into his briefcase.

Ryan watched, registering Pearl's obvious appreciation, Otis's gratitude. A surge of admiration rushed through him, along with an irresistible urge to match Sandy's generosity.

"What about me?" he blurted. Three sets of eyes turned to him and Ryan blushed. "I mean . . . I'd like to help. Maybe there's something that I can do?"

"That's not necessary, kid," Sandy protested. "Hey, I was kidding about extra credit work. I just brought you here so you could meet Otis and Pearl, see where . . . well, where we all started."

Ryan nodded slowly, recognizing the significance of that word: 'we.' "No, I know, but I want to," he persisted. "I'm not sure what I can do, but if you can think of anything . . ."

Otis and Pearl looked at each other for a moment. "Shaun Keating?" Otis asked.

Pearl nodded vigorously. "Shaun Keating," she echoed. "Sweetcheeks, how would you like to be . . . oh, a kind of big brother? There's this kid, thirteen, already in trouble, headed for more, doesn't trust any adults . . ."

"We'll have to contact his P.O. and his mother, see what they think, but you might be exact man for the job," Otis added. "Let us get back to you, all right?"

"Give them one of your cards, Ryan," Sandy prompted.

"Come on, Sandy," Ryan muttered. "They can call me at the house. Those cards are a joke."

Sandy raised his eyebrows and waited. Under his insistent gaze, Ryan sighed in defeat. He retrieved a business card from his briefcase and handed to Otis with a sheepish half-shrug.

Pearl immediately hopped down from the desk to read over Otis's shoulder. They studied the card together, exchanged knowing glances, and grinned. "Seth," they declared simultaneously.

"Got it in one," Sandy laughed. "See, Ryan? I told them all about Seth too. And speaking of The Ironist, he's probably driving Kirsten crazy right about now. What do you say, kid? Ready to hit the road?"

Ryan took a deep, satisfied breath. He stood up, stretching his shoulders. Somehow, he realized, Sandy had known that he needed this stop. In this dingy office, replete with Pearl's effusion, Otis's dignity, all the evidence of their work and their respect for Sandy, the day had sorted itself out. All the disparate pieces fell into their proper place: Scott . . . Beth . . . Glenn Humphrey . . . Mrs. Crespo . . . even Trey.

Ryan could start to make sense of them now.

Sandy cupped the back of his neck, and Ryan smiled gratefully. He felt tired, and comforted, and valued, and secure.

"Yeah, Sandy," he sighed. "Let's go home now."

TBC


	8. Part 8: The Return Home

Part 8: The Return Home 

Light and shadow chased each other across Ryan's face as he stared out the car window at the coastline. Sandy glanced over several times, debating silently, before he made a decision.

"Videos!" he exclaimed, snapping his fingers. With a quick check of the rearview mirror, he swerved into the left lane and pulled into the parking lot of the small shopping center.

Ryan's eyes slid sideways, startled. "Videos?" he echoed.

"For tonight," Sandy explained. "A nice family dinner—from Montoni's, thank you very much—really calls for a movie afterwards. We can have dessert in the den, kick off our shoes, relax in front of the TV. . ."

"Decompress?" Ryan concluded wryly.

Sandy opened his mouth to protest before conceding the point with a rueful nod. "That too, I suppose," he admitted. Sliding his sunglasses to the bridge of his nose, he peered at Ryan over the top. "So, what do you think? Comedy? Drama? Action-adventure? What are you in the mood for tonight, kid?"

"Me?"

"You. Today you get to choose."

"Sandy, I'm cool with anything. Really."

Ryan unlatched his seatbelt, but Sandy didn't budge. "Not so fast," he ordered sternly. "'Cool with anything' doesn't cut it today, buddy. Seth has picked out our movies, I have, Seth has, Kirsten has—Lord save us from chick flicks--oh, and did I mention that Seth has?" Sandy's gaze softened, and his voice took on a coaxing tone. "It's your turn, Ryan."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. And it's long overdue."

"Okay then." One hand already poised on the car door, Ryan paused to consider. He cocked his head, brows furrowing. "How about . . . a theme night?" he suggested at last.

"Hmm. I don't know." Sandy's tone remained grave, but his eyes glinted, laughing. "The last time we tried that it wasn't too successful. Remember? Seth's infamous 'Movies that gave me nightmares when I was nine?' triple-feature?"

Ryan groaned. "God, how can I forget? Before he put in the first one, he gave that speech . . ."

"Ah yes. 'The measure of a man's maturity is how he faces his childhood fears'," Sandy recounted with fond amusement. "And then he talked for ten minutes about how we were going to witness Seth Cohen conquering the cinematic terror that petrified him when he was young. Which might have been easier to do if he hadn't spent most of his time making popcorn, getting drinks, and going to the bathroom. Honestly, I don't think Seth could have seen more than thirty minutes of those movies."

Ryan leaned back, savoring the memory. "They still freaked him out though."

"I know," Sandy agreed. "It's a wonder he even went to sleep that night."

"Um, Sandy? He didn't exactly," Ryan reported dryly. "After you and Kirsten went to bed, Seth followed me to the pool house."

"Did he really, kid? Don't tell me he made you stay up all night to keep him company."

"Yeah, pretty much. He claimed that when we're in college we'll have to pull a lot of all-nighters, so we should practice doing without sleep. But about four o'clock he crashed on the floor anyway. Then he woke up half an hour later yelling something about an alien Captain Oats. Or maybe it was aliens eating Captain Oats. I'm not sure. I kind of kicked him out."

Sandy chuckled. "So I take it you're not planning to screen 'Movies that gave Ryan nightmares when he was nine'?"

"Movies never gave me nightmares," Ryan replied. Unconsciously, he emphasized the first word. Sandy shot him an appraising stare and he flushed, averting his face for a moment. Then he took a deep breath and turned back around. "Actually . . ." He hesitated, chewing his lip. "I was thinking the theme could be . . . movies about lawyers? **_Maybe And Justice_** **_for All_**? Or, I don't know, **_The Verdict_**?"

"Movies about lawyers." Sandy pretended to mull the idea for two seconds before he broke into a delighted smile. "An outstanding choice, if I do say so myself." He got out of the car and Ryan followed. As they walked the short distance to the store, Sandy mused with growing enthusiasm, "You know we could run a marathon. Let's see . . . **_To Kill a Mockingbird. Twelve Angry Men. Inherit the Wind. The Paper Chase. Presumed Innocent. Philadelphia_**--" He broke off when he spied Ryan biting back a grin. "Hmm . . . too much, do you think?"

"Ah, yeah," Ryan confirmed, his voice laced with laughter. "Maybe a little."

Sandy held up his hands in rueful surrender. "All right, fine, I'll settle for a double feature. But you know, kid, that's the thing about lawyers. They make such damn fine heroes on film."

"In real life too," Ryan murmured. He glanced up through his lashes. "At least some of them." Before Sandy could answer, he ducked into the store and disappeared down the classics aisle, calling over his shoulder, "I'll just be a minute, okay?"

"Take your time," Sandy urged.

Loosening his tie, he leaned against a display of new releases. The events of the day flashed through his mind and he sighed wearily. It hardly seemed like only eight hours since he and Ryan had dropped Seth off at Harbor. Sandy felt drained, and faintly troubled by Ryan's last remark.

Despite a rush of pride when he heard the comment, Sandy knew that it was wrong.

He was no hero.

A hero wouldn't have ignored the turmoil in his own family last year so he could revisit his past as a romantic rebel. He wouldn't have missed the warning signs of his wife's increased drinking, certainly wouldn't have contributed to her lonely despair. He wouldn't have skipped major events in Seth's life like the comic book launch party. Wouldn't have discounted Ryan's conflicted feelings about his brother and definitely—Sandy flinched at the memory—wouldn't have disregarded all the warning signals Trey's behavior triggered.

A hero—hell, even a loving husband and father—would have paid attention. Should have paid attention.

The fact that his family had emerged intact was a minor miracle. Sandy breathed a silent prayer of thanks, and another one of resolution. Somehow he would atone for his neglect of both Kirsten and Seth. At least, he consoled himself, their years as a family provided him with solid foundation, a history of devotion and caring. But as for Ryan . . .

Sandy recalled the broken boy who bolted from the table in the prison visiting room, heard again those apparently innocent words "Movies never gave me nightmares," and sensed the harsh truth lurking behind them. Ryan might be almost eighteen and off to college in just a few months. He still needed a father—not some fantasy hero, but a man he could trust, for support, for understanding, for unconditional love.

If he hadn't been the father Ryan needed before, Sandy was determined that he would be that man now. And from now on.

At least this day had let him make a start.

An animated female voice down the next aisle strayed into Sandy's consciousness. He roused slightly, listening more closely when he heard Ryan reply.

"That is such a great choice," the girl was declaring enthusiastically. "You've honestly never seen it?"

"No. But I've read the book."

"Oh, the book is so wonderful, isn't it? Touching and funny and thought-provoking and honest and . . . God, listen to me. I sound like a blurb on the back jacket. Maybe you didn't even like it. But you're renting the movie, so you must have liked it. You did like it, right?"

Without even seeing him, Sandy could picture the faint half-smile framing Ryan's restrained response. "Yeah I did. It was great."

"Exactly! It is great, isn't it? And you'll love the movie, I promise. It's one of the few film adaptations that retain the spirit of the source material. And Gregory Peck is beyond perfect as Atticus. Wait until you see him. He's got the quiet dignity, the moral resolution, the strength of character, the compassion. Oh, and you can just feel his love for his kids. If I ever have a son, that's what I want to name him—Atticus, I mean, not Gregory."

"Atticus?" Ryan's tone hedged the question with doubt. "I mean, yeah, I understand why, but . . . Atticus?"

Sandy heard an embarrassed giggle.

"All right, maybe that can be his middle name. Although, Atticus is better than Dweezil isn't it? Or Pilot Inspektor?"

The voices grew louder as Ryan strolled into view. Walking beside him—very close beside him, Sandy observed dryly—was a vivid brunette who wore at least six earrings and a short, lime-green skirt. They loitered near the register, the girl clutching a stack of CDs and laughing. Sandy retreated a step so that he could watch undetected. With mingled relief and surprise, he noted how relaxed Ryan appeared. His head was lifted, his muscles loose—even his hair looked lightly tousled, as if a breeze had just ruffled it. As his companion continued to chatter, Ryan's small, crooked grin slowly stretched into a smile, open, unguarded, and, Sandy realized with a pang, much too rare. It illuminated his eyes, turning them a pure, cloudless blue.

Something inside Sandy responded, some stubborn anxiety finally seeping away.

Ryan looked happy.

Leaning at ease against the wall, head propped lazily on one outstretched arm, he scarcely resembled the rigid boy who had paced out of the Chino prison, each step echoing with guilt and misery. Sandy had hoped that visiting the PD's office might begin to restore Ryan's spirits, and it had; Otis' warm welcome, Pearl's blunt, blessed praise, had assuaged much of the hurt inflicted by his meeting with Trey. Still, as they inched their way home through near-gridlock conditions, Sandy sensed Ryan slowly withdrawing, a forlorn reserve threatening to engulf him again. Whenever he looked over at the passenger seat, he had blinked, seeing for an instant the lost child he had driven back from Chino two years before.

Even to Sandy, the car began to feel claustrophobic. He had stopped at the video store impulsively, in an attempt to distract them both. Sandy hadn't expected the maneuver to work, but he was desperate to do something--something more, or maybe something else--to erase the last traces of Trey-inspired anguish.

Apparently, this bubbly stranger had managed to do that for him.

"Come on," Ryan was protesting. He shook his head with playful accusation. "You're making that up. Nobody would name his kid Pilot Inspektor."

"Jason Lee did!" the girl insisted. She punctuated the statement with an earnest nod that made her curls bounce. "Lots of people name their children much, much worse things than Atticus. Banjo, and Daisy Poo and Audio Science. Seriously weird names that must wreak havoc on the poor kids' psyches."

Ryan opened his mouth and immediately closed it. Looking wounded, he dropped his gaze to the floor.

"Oh God," the girl stammered. "Wait, am I insulting you? Your name isn't something, I don't know, really bizarre is it?"

"You tell me." Scuffing one foot into the carpet, Ryan shrugged. "It's . . ." He peeked up through his lashes and lowered his voice to a confidential whisper. "It's Ryan."

The girl breathed a sigh of mingled relief and fascination. "Ryan," she repeated. Her lips pursed around the first syllable as she pronounced it again, stretching the syllables into a tiny song. "Ryan. No, that's not strange at all. It's an excellent name. I like it. A lot actually." She shuffled the DVDs under one arm and thrust out her other hand. "I'm Nikki. Nicole. Well, really, just Nikki. Only my mother calls me Nicole. Anyway, it's nice to meet you Ryan."

Ryan tilted his head. "You too Nikki," he murmured. The left side of his mouth lifted as his fingers curled around hers.

_Damn, I wish I had a camera_, Sandy thought, watching the moment of introduction. _That is a candid shot I would love to preserve._

"It's London."

Puzzled, Ryan arched his eyebrows.

"Oh! No, I mean . . . not the city," Nikki amended, flustered. "My last name is London. Just in case you wondered, or wanted to know, or . . ." She glanced down at her hand, still resting in Ryan's, and blushed. "All right, this is embarrassing. I'm babbling, aren't I?"

"Maybe a little," Ryan conceded. "But I don't mind. Actually, I'm pretty used to it."

Nikki withdrew her hand. She shrank back slightly, her expression dimming. "Oh. You are?"

"My best friend. Seth," Ryan explained. "World class babbler. Seriously, Nikki, you? Are not even close to his league."

_Seth._ The name slapped Sandy back into the moment. Frowning with apprehension, he checked his watchIts display confirmed his suspicions: Seth and Kirsten had expected them home half an hour ago.

Sandy sighed. He hated to interrupt when Ryan was clearly enjoying himself, but he could already picture the scene in the Cohen house: Seth's foot would be jiggling while he stared at the clock, asking fifty different variations of the question "Why aren't they here yet?" In response Kirsten would urge patience, pretending nonchalance even as she twisted her rings nervously.

It was time to go home.

Clearing his throat to announce his presence, Sandy stepped forward.

"Hey kid--" he began, more loudly than he intended.

Nikki whirled around. The DVDs she was cradling spilled to the floor with a rhythmic clatter. One clipped Sandy on the toe and he hopped back awkwardly.

"Oh! God, I'm so sorry!" Nikki exclaimed. "What an idiot!" Aghast, she clapped her hand over her mouth. "No, I don't mean you. I mean me. I'm so clumsy sometimes--"

"Totally my fault," Sandy assured her. "I startled you. Here, let me help--" He stooped to pick up the scattered cases, but Ryan was already gathering them together.

"I've got them, Sandy." He tapped the edges into a tidy stack as he stood up. "They're for us anyway. Nikki was just . . ."

Sandy grinned. "Carrying them for you? How very chivalrous of her."

"No, she wasn't! I mean . . ." Ryan flushed. "Yeah, I guess she was." Expelling his breath in an embarrassed groan, he turned to Nikki. "I'm sorry. How did that happen anyway?"

"I don't know," Nikki admitted. "We started talking, or really, I did, and I asked to see the movies you picked out and then I suggested some other ones and . . . somehow I just kept holding them all while we were walking. And standing here."

"And talking some more," Ryan teased.

Nikki hid her flaming face behind one hand. "That too. I don't know what got into me. Honestly, I'm usually pretty quiet." She peeked at Sandy from between her fingers. "By the way, hi," she added with wry courtesy. "I'm Nikki London. Klutz. And chatterbox."

"Sorry! I should have introduced you. Nikki, this is Sandy Cohen. He's my . . . he's um--" Unable to find the right words, Ryan swallowed, his voice trailing off in confusion.

Instantly, Sandy stepped in, taking Nikki's hand. "Mr. Manners here is my son," he concluded smoothly. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Nikki. And I apologize for interrupting, but I'm afraid that Ryan and I are due home. Overdue actually."

Ryan blinked, startled. "We are? We're late?"

"We're late," Sandy confirmed. "And you know what that means."

Biting his lip, Ryan nodded wryly. "Yep. We face the wrath of Seth."

"And Kirsten's too, if we don't get going." Sandy looked dubiously at the stack of DVDs in Ryan's arms. "Did you pick out our movies?"

"Yeah I have. These."

"All of them? I thought we decided on a double-feature."

Ryan shrugged. "Seth screened a marathon. I figured we could do it too. You did say that it was my choice, right?

"Absolutely," Sandy agreed. He counted the number of cases and grinned. "Seven. I think maybe we should spread out this film festival over three nights . . . So you're ready to go?"

"Soon as I pay for these . . ." Ryan turned to Nikki. Darting a look over his shoulder at Sandy he hesitated before saying with faint formality, "Thank you, Nikki. For your suggestions. And everything."

Nikki's response was similarly stilted. "You're welcome, Ryan. I hope you enjoy the movies." There was a brief, awkward pause. She began to back hesitantly toward the door, but after three steps, she stopped. "Um . . . call me, maybe?" she suggested. "After you watch **_To Kill a Mockingbird_**, I mean? To let me know how you like it?"

"Yeah, I'll do that. Definitely"

"Okay then. Wait, I'll give you my number." Nikki fumbled inside her purse, finding a pen but no paper. "I'm sure I've got something here . . ." she murmured.

"Use this," Sandy offered, pulling a notebook out of his pocket.

Nikki shook her head, her curls bobbing. "Thanks, but I've got it." Impetuously, she grabbed Ryan's hand. Holding his wrist, her thumb grazing his pulse point, she printed her number across his palm.

Ryan caught his breath, looking sideways at Sandy.

"Now don't wash that!" Nikki ordered. "I mean, not until you copy it somewhere." She slipped her pen back in her purse, waved once and left the store.

Sandy waited until she was gone. Then he coughed into his fist, producing a muffled burst that sounded suspiciously like the name "Beth."

"Come on Sandy!" Ryan groaned.

"What?" Sandy raised his eyebrows. "I'm just saying, kid . . . Seems like I can't take you anywhere without you hooking up with some beautiful girl."

"We didn't . . ." Ryan muttered. "And anyway Sandy, don't say hook up."

Sandy's eyes sparkled impishly. "Okay, wrong word choice," he conceded. "But you've got to admit, first Beth at lunch and now Nikki . . ." With a thoughtful frown, he reached for Ryan's hand. "Hmm . . . She didn't happen to dot her i's with hearts, did she now, sport?"

Glaring, Ryan balled his fist and crammed it into his pocket as he marched to the register. Sandy trailed after him, smothering laughter.

"I figured," he murmured wisely. "She did."

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Before the Beemer came to a complete stop in front of the Cohen house, the door burst open and Seth bounded outside, jabbing his watch furiously.

"What's wrong?" Ryan asked, his eyes wide and innocent. The corners of his mouth twitched in anticipation of Seth's tirade.

"Late!" Seth announced. He crossed his arms in his best irate schoolteacher pose. "You and Dad are forty-two—no, make that forty-three minutes late. That is 'what's wrong,' thank you very much, dude."

Ryan shrugged. "Yeah, well, we called."

"Also late! And with totally lame excuses! Traffic jams! Video stores! You forgot our address!"

"Hey, we never said--"

Seth raised his hand, palm out, ordering silence. "Save the apologies for Mom," he warned. "I have to tell you, man, it hasn't been pretty in there, what with food getting cold and tempers fraying. There's been fuming, pacing, some threats, a few curses--"

Kirsten appeared in the doorway behind Seth, smiling benignly as Sandy got out of the car. "Hello sweetie," she murmured, kissing Ryan on the cheek. "Did you enjoy your day shadowing Sanford Cohen, Esquire, Attorney-at-Law? All those meetings didn't bore you, did they?"

"No." Ryan's eyes darkened and he flushed, stammering, "I mean, yeah, we . . . um, yeah, it was . . ."

"Was . . . what? I think you need an adjective or two about now, bro." Seth's tone was teasing, but his eyes glinted with speculative curiosity. "So maybe 'great'? 'Interesting' in a better-than-French-class kind of way? Or how about 'mind-numbing' but you'll never admit it?"

Ducking his head, Ryan shot a pleading gaze to Sandy, who nodded reassurance.

"Ryan and I had a full and stimulating day," he declared, throwing an arm around Kirsten. "We both learned a lot. And we accomplished a lot. But right now, we're just hungry and glad to be home." He squeezed his wife's shoulders to emphasize his point.

Kirsten's answering smile disappeared as she peered past Sandy to Ryan. Eyes shuttered, he studied the ground evasively, and her forehead creased with concern. "What did--?" she began, but Sandy interrupted by burrowing his face behind her ear. "Sandy, stop it!" she scolded, squirming. "What are you doing? The kids are right here!"

"Yes, Sandy, stop it! The kids are right here!" Seth echoed, cringing. "You know, impressionable youth? Standing next to you? Seeing everything?"

Sandy lifted his face long enough to wag his eyebrows. "Watch and learn son," he advised.

"Sanford Cohen!" Laughing, Kirsten swatted his arm, then pulled him behind her into the house.

Shaking his head, Ryan released a hissing breath. "Man," he intoned dolefully.

"What?" Seth demanded.

"Hey, it's just, I get it now, buddy. I can see how upset the Kirsten is. All that fuming, pacing and cursing—you sure it's safe to go in there?"

Seth glowered. "Trust me, there was fuming and pacing, dude. I date Summer Roberts, remember? So I know fuming and pacing when I--"

"Do it?" Ryan concluded brightly. Slipping through the door, he strolled into the kitchen, calling over Seth's garbled protests, "Kirsten, I'm sorry that the food got cold."

"Oh, Ryan, it's no problem," Kirsten assured him. "We'll just reheat the entrées while we eat our salads."

As he carried containers over to the table, Ryan paused next to Seth. "You were right, man," he confided in a rueful whisper. "She was brutal."

"Hey!" Seth waved a breadstick like a sword. "You mock, but I'll show you brutal, buddy. Just wait until our PlayStation grudge match tonight. Grudge being, you know, the operative word."

Ryan slid into his seat and began to fork salad onto his plate. "Sorry. Can't," he answered blithely. "We're watching movies tonight."

"Movies, huh? So, okay then, grudge match tomorrow. Revenge is a dish best served cold anyway. Unlike, may I point out, our dinner. Only . . . whoa!" Pivoting to face his father, Seth scowled suspiciously. "Who picked out the movies? Because I'm pretty sure it was my turn."

Sandy held Kirsten's chair for her before seating himself. "It was Ryan's turn," he replied, shaking out a napkin. "He chose."

"Yeah," Seth snorted. "Ryan chose. Right. You're a funny man, dad. Seriously, though, what did you get? Because for the record, I'm boycotting if you brought home **_Grease_** again--"

"I chose. And it's a theme night. Movies about lawyers," Ryan announced. "I thought we'd start with, um, maybe **_To Kill a Mockingbird." _**Immediately he took a long drink of water, using the glass as a shield from Sandy's meaningful grin.

Kirsten set down her fork with a contented sigh. "Finally!" she declared. "A movie night that I'll enjoy. I adore **_To Kill a Mockingbird_**. Atticus Finch was the first lawyer I fell in love with."

"Really?" Seth asked ingenuously. "Who was the last?"

Ignoring the question, Kirsten reached over to pat Ryan's hand. The smile she bestowed on him was both proud and tender. "That's a lovely gesture, sweetie, honoring Sandy with a theme night."

Sandy grasped his lapels, posing smugly. "It is pretty great, isn't it?" he agreed.

"Suck-up," Seth muttered. Spearing an olive, he jabbed it playfully in Ryan's direction.

"Seth!" Kirsten admonished. "Don't say suck-up."

"And watch the utensils," Ryan warned, waving Seth's hand away. "Besides, I am not a . . . what you said. That's slander, Seth."

Sandy beamed. "See what he's learned already? Ryan speaks legalese now."

With a dramatic sigh, Seth threw back his head to stare glumly at the ceiling. "Okay," he groaned. "Doom is obviously inevitable, so let's just get it over with. Tell us all about your day, Dad. I'd suggest that Ryan do it except for the fact that, you know, he's Ryan."

"Well, son, since you insist," Sandy teased. He took a slow sip of his drink, prolonging the moment. "Hmm, where to start? Well, this morning I accepted a very worthwhile new case. In a way Ryan did too. You might say he's my partner on this one. He even gave my client one of his cards."

Seth brightened. "Yeah? You used my cards, dude? Awesome! I was pretty proud of the slogan—'I charge by the word.' Of course, people have to know you to appreciate the irony--"

"Wait," Kirsten urged, blinking in confusion. "Ryan, you're Sandy's partner on an actual case?"

Ryan shook his head. "That's just Sandy being clever--"

"Or trying to be clever," Seth injected. Sandy glowered with mock-menace, and he scooted out of reach, adding hastily, "Hey, just playing devil's advocate, Dad."

Kirsten dabbed her mouth with a napkin to mask her smile. "No playing at the table, Seth," she ordered. "Now Ryan, what were you saying?"

"Just, Sandy is representing a little kid. And it seemed like, well, he could use a friend." Hunching one shoulder, Ryan flashed a tiny, self-effacing smile. "I gave him my phone number, that's all."

"So . . ." Seth mused, "Let me see if I've got this: a new case for Dad, a new little friend for Ryan. Yep, sounds like a fascinating day, guys. Thanks for sharing. Now let me tell how what happened in calculus--"

Tapping a knife against his plate, Sandy motioned for silence. "I'm not finished, son."

"Oh." With a long-suffering sigh, Seth slumped down in his chair. "You mean there's more?"

Sandy opened his mouth to reply. Then he paused, glancing at Ryan. "You know what?" he suggested blandly. "I think we can settle for a bullet point summary. Ryan sat in on a few meetings, we had lunch at the country club, and this afternoon we dropped by my old office at the Justice Building. May have been the best part of the day. I picked up a pro bono case, Ryan offered his services as a big brother—oh, and he got to meet Otis and Pearl."

"You did, Ryan?" Kirsten chuckled softly. "That must have been fun. Otis is such a darling, and Pearl . . . Pearl is . . ."

"A character?" Sandy suggested.

"A terrifying force of nature?" Seth proposed. At the sight of Ryan's dubious frown, he explained with a shiver, "Well, what can I say? The woman scares me."

Kirsten's eyes danced. "Pearl definitely is one of a kind. I'm glad you got to meet her and Otis, Ryan. But Sandy, I wish you had mentioned that you planned to stop by the office. I would have had you return that book Pearl loaned me. I've had it for months now."

"He didn't plan it," Ryan explained. The microwave pinged, and he got up, adding over his shoulder. "We just stopped in on our way back from Chino."

The last word slipped out unconsciously. Ryan only realized what he had said when his mouth filled with a rancid taste, and a stunned silence engulfed the room.

Kirsten dropped her fork, her head jerking up, and her stare piercing Sandy with icy disbelief.

Seth's bewildered gaze darted between his parents before settling on Ryan, who had returned to his chair, his jaw tense and his eyes downcast. "Oh-kay," he prompted slowly. "What's going on? Why were you guys in Chino today?"

"We . . . um . . . Sandy had a meeting at the Chino prison," Ryan muttered.

Seth shook his head, started to speak, swallowed, and started again. "And you went with him?" he stammered. "Man. That had to have been . . . intense. Or . . . I don't know, not. But . . . shit, Ryan, was that why you sounded so weird when you called?"

"I thought you rescheduled that appointment, Sandy." Kirsten's tone remained level, but it was edged with furious accusation. "Didn't you do that?"

Ryan caught the barbed glare she shot at Sandy, and rushed to explain. "No, Kirsten, he did. Only . . ."

"It's okay, Ryan," Sandy said gently. Straightening his shoulders, he took a deep breath before he continued. "Look, sweetheart, I got a message during lunch that my client's court date was changed. There was no choice; I had to talk to him today. And Ryan . . . decided to come with me." He paused, glancing at Ryan, who nodded terse permission.

"You might as well tell them," he murmured.

Sandy met Kirsten's eyes and then Seth's. His own held entreaty but not apology. "Ryan wanted to visit Trey."

"Trey?" Kirsten gasped. Her nails dug into the surface of the table. "Ryan, you went to see your brother?"

Swiveling wildly from his father to Ryan, Seth gaped, speechless for once. His elbow bumped the pitcher of water, sending liquid sloshing over the top.

Instinctively, Ryan reached over to steady the container. "It's not a big deal," he claimed feebly. "I mean . . . it's not like I met Trey alone. Sandy came with me. He was . . ." His eyes, lit in gratitude, lifted to Sandy's. "He was amazing."

"Then you're all right?" Kirsten demanded. Extending her hand, she let it hover above Ryan's before her fingers clasped his lightly.

He bit his lip, proffering a brief, candid half-smile. "Yeah. I am."

"But what about Trey?" Seth stuttered. "Did you guys . . . I mean, did he . . . shit, Ryan, I don't even know what to ask."

"Then don't ask anything," Sandy advised. With an air of calm authority, he rose from his seat. "In fact, there's a moratorium on all Trey-related talk until the day after tomorrow. Ryan and I already decided." His determined gaze scanned all the faces at the table. "Deal?"

Seth released the napkin he had been clutching unconsciously. It unfurled into a wrinkled fan next to his plate. "I'm in," he agreed.

"Kirsten? Sweetheart? I promise, we'll deal with all of this later."

Squeezing Ryan's hand, Kirsten forced a reluctant nod.

"Good," Sandy declared. "And now I would like to propose a toast." He raised his glass, smiling at Ryan over its rim. "To Ryan Atwood, shadow extraordinaire. Thank you for today, son. It meant a lot to me."

"To Ryan," Kirsten echoed warmly.

Seth grinned, clinking his glass against Ryan's. "Yeah, man. You know, what Dad said."

"Thanks, guys." Ryan exhaled a pleased, embarrassed breath. Swallowing hard, he allowed himself to meet Sandy's eyes, recognizing the truth they conveyed, their complete, loving conviction. His voice grew stronger and more confident. "Thank you. A lot."

"You're welcome," Seth replied magnanimously. "So we get to eat now, right? Ryan, would you send the butter this way?"

Still focused on Sandy, Ryan absently passed the plate across the table.

A Cheshire smile exploded across Seth's face. "Dude!" he exclaimed. He grabbed Ryan's hand and turned it palm up, so the faint purple printing was visible to everyone. "You guys totally left out the best part of the story!"

FIN

AN: But there may be a coda—Ryan's class report about his day.


	9. Part 9: The Paper

In His Shadow: Part 9, The Paper (Epilogue) 

"This. Sucks," Ryan muttered.

Scowling at his yellow legal pad with disgust, he ripped off the top ink-stained sheet and wadded it into a ball. Dimly, he could hear a series of spastic raps at the poolhouse door, but he ignored them, concentrating instead on sinking his latest rejected draft. It arced perfectly, but then it ricocheted off Seth's nose as he sidled inside the poolhouse, teetered on the rim of the wastebasket and tumbled to the floor.

"Hey!" Seth protested, snatching a cushion off the chair to shield his face. "I totally knocked, dude! In my patented Seth Cohen rhythm too. And you didn't say not to come in, so I assumed I was welcome. Or maybe not welcome exactly. But I figured at least I wouldn't be attacked by flying missiles when I came in, and, and . . ." He peered over the top of the pillow, his brows puckered suspiciously. "What are you doing in here anyway?"

"Writing my paper," Ryan growled. Flipping to a fresh page, he glared a challenge at the notebook propped against his knees. "For soc class. It's due tomorrow."

"Ahh, I see." With a bemused nod, Seth replaced the chair cushion and sank down on it, tenting his hands under his chin. "And you thought that writing a paper meant writing _on_ paper? Ryan, Ryan, Ryan. That's . . . well, that's adorable, really. But may I remind you that it's 2006? And you have a computer? See, right over there--with a keyboard and spell-check and delete key and built-in thesaurus and everything. Seriously, you can do a lot with it besides just downloading porn."

Viciously, Ryan crossed out the two words he had just written. "Seth," he warned.

"Wait. Music," Seth amended with sudden apprehension. "Did I say porn? Because I meant downloading music. Not, you know, porn, since I never go to porn sites, no matter how enticing their pop-up ads might be, what with the popping and the up. And if you tell Summer I do . . ." He shuddered at the prospect. "Yeah, I'm sure you can guess, Ryan. So not mentioning my little slip of the tongue to her would be good. In fact, not mentioning tongue at all--"

"Seth! I'm working here." Ryan lobbed yet another crumbled paper ball across the room. He grunted with satisfaction when it plopped in the wastebasket.

"Working. Right. Yep, I can see that. I'm thinking you're a little short for pro basketball, but hey, a guy can dream. And that is a mean . . . whatever . . . move that you have there, man. Do you win when you fill the trashcan? 'Cause I think you're only about three shots away."

Ryan groaned, dropping his head to his knees. "Seth," he mumbled. "Could you just go?"

"I could, yes," Seth conceded. Leaning back blithely, he made himself more comfortable. "And I will. But first I have two questions and a statement."

"And you won't leave until . . .?"

"I have quested and stated, right. Okay, query one: why aren't you using your computer, dude? Nobody writes papers longhand anymore."

Shrugging, Ryan strummed the edge of his notebook with a thumbnail. "I don't know," he admitted. "I guess because I watched Sandy take notes on legal pads all day, it just seemed like I should. . ."

"Oh. Got it. This sad retreat from technology is Dad-inspired." Seth shook his head sympathetically. "Ryan, you've got to understand. Dad totally romanticizes the legal profession. He never got past **_The Paper Chase_** and that whole 'You come in here with a skull full of mush and you leave thinking like a lawyer' shtick—and really, including that film in your lawyer-marathon the other night? Definite overkill, buddy. Also blatant sucking-up. Anyway, just because Dad likes to envision himself as who's-it, the main character--"

"James Hart," Ryan supplied automatically.

"Right. That guy. And incidentally, the fact that you remembered his name? Proof positive that we've seen the film too often. Anyway, just because Dad's stuck in a fountain pen and legal pad era doesn't mean you have to be." Retrieving Ryan's laptop from his desk, Seth presented it to him with a flourish. "Voila! I give you . . . the writing implement of the . . . well, the now. Embrace it, man. Or at least use it. Save a tree or five."

"Uh-huh." Ryan gave the computer a dubious glance and put it aside as he picked up his notebook again.

Seth sighed dramatically. "Luddite," he scoffed. "Okay, I tried. Question two, why are you having such a hard time with this paper? I mean, beyond the fact that you're trying to handwrite it? Don't you just have to describe your day with Dad and tell what you learned from it? I'm thinking 'I listened to Sandy Cohen talk legalese and I learned that it's a mind-numbing experience,' should about cover it. Now, on the other hand, if you want to tell how a girl came to write her phone number on your palm . . ."

"I don't. Now make your statement and leave, Seth, so I can work in peace."

"Yes, but Ryan, you haven't answered question two yet. You don't have to do any research or cite sources or interpret poetry here. Why is this paper giving you problems?"

Ryan jabbed the point of his pen into the margin of his notebook. "I don't know," he admitted reluctantly. "I just . . . can't seem to figure out how to say what I want to say."

"What? Really? A wordsmith like you? The mind boggles."

Seth's defensive leap didn't prevent Ryan's pillow from hitting him smack in the face.

"Out! Now!"

Scampering for the door, Seth paused just long enough to peek back and add hastily, "Statement, R.A. Mom says dinner will be here in fifteen minutes. See you inside!"

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

An hour later, a tentative knock roused Ryan from his glum contemplation of the scribbled notes in front of him. He was about to yell, "It's locked, Seth! Take a hint!" when Kirsten's muted voice drifted in.

"Ryan? Are you all right? You missed dinner."

Instantly, he vaulted off the bed, calling "Just a minute!" and scrambling to open the door. Kirsten stood just outside, an apologetic smile on her face and her hands balancing a loaded tray of food and a brimming glass of ice tea.

"Seth said you were doing homework and we probably shouldn't bother you, but I thought you might get hungry . . ." she explained sheepishly.

"No. That is, yeah, I was, but . . . here, let me get that. Thanks." Taking the tray, Ryan deposited it on the counter. He turned to face Kirsten with an abashed shrug. "Sorry," he said, indicating the mussed comforter and the overflowing wastebasket. "It's kind of a mess."

Kirsten chuckled softly. "Sweetie, it looks lived in, that's all. Besides, it's your room. And it's not even in the same league as Seth's. At least I can breathe in here."

"Yeah." Ryan grinned. "His room does get a little, um, ripe sometimes."

"That it does," Kirsten agreed. She glanced around, her brows arching quizzically at the evidence of frustration—several chewed pen tops, scattered, half-written sheets striped with angry black lines, a crumpled paper ball skewered by a ballpoint. "Still, this level of . . . disorder . . . is unusual for you. Rough assignment?"

Ryan chewed the inside of his cheek. "Not really," he demurred. "I mean, it shouldn't be. I just have to write a summary of the day I spent with Sandy. It doesn't even have to be long. Just done. By tomorrow."

"Oh." Inclining her head, Kirsten considered the matter. "But you're having trouble writing about it? Why? You were glad you went, weren't you?"

"Yes!" Ryan blurted. He flushed, hearing his own strident emphasis.

"I meant . . . even with the visit to Trey? Is that what's making it hard for you, Ryan? Because I'm sure you don't have to mention that at all. It has nothing to do with the assignment."

Shaking his head, Ryan fumbled to explain. "No, that's not the problem. It's me." Embarrassed, he glanced up from under his lashes. "I don't know how to talk about Sandy. And I want to do him justice, that's all. If that makes any sense."

Kirsten smiled tenderly. "Of course it does. But Ryan, there's no reason to worry. Just trust yourself," she advised. "You'll do fine." With a swift, gentle kiss, she patted Ryan's arm, directing him toward the tray of food before she turned to go. "I'll let you get back to work. But sweetie, first you really should eat."

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Room service, Ryan," Sandy called from outside the poolhouse. "I've got dessert! The last piece of lemon meringue pie, snatched directly out of Seth's greedy hands."

He waited a few moments, then peeked inside. Ryan was slumped on his bed, eyes closed, half-used legal pad open on his lap, and his cheek awkwardly resting against his own shoulder. Grinning fondly, Sandy crossed to the counter, setting down the pie and retrieving Ryan's almost-untouched tray of food. He was already halfway out of the room when he stumbled over a stray pen, sending the pieces of silverware clattering loudly against each other.

"Huh?" Ryan mumbled, blinking drowsily. "Sandy? What's going on?"

"Sorry, kid. I was just delivering a snack—even though it looks like you pretty much passed on dinner. Didn't mean to wake you."

Yawning, Ryan scrubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. "No, it's okay. Shouldn't have been sleeping," he admitted, shaking his head in an effort to rouse himself. "Got to get this paper typed." He grinned wryly as he shuffled some scattered pages together. "Good thing it's short."

"Ah yes, the infamous paper. Kirsten told me what you were working on." Sandy tapped the edge of the stack, his expression pensive. "May I?" he asked. "Would you mind?"

Ryan flushed. "I, um . . . it's really messy. And not very good. But . . . I guess." He chewed the corner of his lip, adding doubtfully, "If you want to."

"Tell you what." Sandy retrieved the pie and brought it to Ryan, exchanging the plate and fork for the papers he was holding. "You can eat while I read."

Seating himself comfortably at the foot of the bed, Sandy faced sideways, squinting in the dim light. Occasionally as he read he glanced over his shoulder at Ryan. The boy was always watching, an empty fork denting his lower lip, his anxious blue eyes skittering downward as soon as they met Sandy's gaze.

When he finished the essay, Sandy coughed softly and started to read again, this time out loud. He heard Ryan's startled breath of protest and felt him shift uneasily on the bed before he fell silent, listening. Sandy's voice was warm and smooth, deftly ignoring the many corrections, the arrows, insertions, and crossed-out words.

"_For this assignment," _he read,_ "I chose to shadow Sandy Cohen. I don't know how to describe our relationship. Sandy started out as my lawyer, when I got in serious trouble back where I used to live. The he became my guardian. That's the legal term, I guess, but guardian is a really strange word. Its root is 'guard,' so in a way, having a guardian sounds like you're in prison and someone is making sure you don't escape. That's not Sandy at all. But guarding somebody is caring too—protecting them, looking out for them, doing whatever it takes to make sure they don't get hurt. Sandy definitely does all those things, so in that sense, I suppose the term 'guardian' fits. I wanted to spend the day with him because he is my role model, and if he hadn't been a lawyer—if I hadn't been lucky enough to get him as my lawyer—I might never have known what a real man should be. _

"_I know this assignment was intended to give us insight into a person's career choice and how work reflects someone's personality and place in the world. What I learned from shadowing Sandy was that he practices law because he has faith in people. He knows that human beings can make mistakes, and so can whole societies, but he also believes we have the power to fix those mistakes if we apply certain principles. Sandy mentioned justice and fair treatment, and those are important. But when I watched him work, I saw other qualities too. Sandy treats everyone he meets with respect and humor and compassion. I saw that wherever we went, in all kinds of circumstances. His first client was just a little kid boy. Where I grew up, most adults I knew acted like children don't deserve consideration, like their feelings and ideas don't matter at all. Sandy isn't like that. No matter how old you are or what you've done, he listens, even to what you don't know how to say. He makes you feel like you're worth something after all. _

"_Sandy is the kind of lawyer who makes a difference in society, not in a big, sweeping way like the Supreme Court does, but person by person. He shows people how they can find justice, or atone for what they did wrong, or get a second chance. Anybody who spends time with Sandy is bound to realize, just from his example, that it's not just what the world owes us that matters, it's what we owe each other. I never learned that growing up. Now, thanks to Sandy, I have. I hope I never forget it._

"_I mentioned that Sandy is my guardian. The thing is, in a couple months I'll turn eighteen, and that won't be true anymore. Until I spent the day with him, I wasn't sure what would happen after that. I don't mean physically. I knew the Cohens would never ask me to leave, but I still thought something would change. Without a legal relationship, I believed we wouldn't have any real claim on each other. Sandy is the one who brought me into the Cohen family. Once he's not my guardian anymore, I didn't know who he would be to me, or where I would belong. Now I do. No matter how old I am, he will still be my guardian. He'll be my inspiration. And even though I have a biological dad, in all the ways that count, Sandy Cohen will always be my father." _

Letting the last sheet of paper drift to his lap, Sandy brushed his hand across his eyes. Behind him, Ryan stirred, shifting closer and clearing his throat.

"Is it . . . okay?" he prompted hoarsely.

Sandy inhaled a deep, shaky breath. "No. It's too much, kid." Turning around, he pulled Ryan's head to his shoulder, holding him in silence for a long moment. "A lot more than I deserve," he whispered finally.

"No it's not--"

"Yes. It is." Chucking his fingers under Ryan's chin, Sandy lifted his face and smiled. "But thank you, kid. This means more than I can tell you."

Ryan's mouth curved in a small, answering grin. "You're welcome," he murmured shyly. "Only Sandy . . .?"

"What is it?"

"We're crushing the pie."

Leaning back, Sandy stared askance at the lemon meringue smeared like finger-paints over his sweater and Ryan's t-shirt. He threw back his head, laughing delightedly. "You were supposed to eat that, not wear it! Way to spoil the moment there, son!" he chortled. "Come on. Get changed and let's go inside. The pie may be gone, but I know there's ice cream--"

"Yeah, but my essay," Ryan protested. "I've got to type it."

Grabbing the papers, Sandy hauled Ryan to his feet. "I'll take care of that while you have dessert," he suggested, swabbing meringue from his sleeve. "It won't be any trouble now that I've deciphered this chicken-scratch that you call handwriting."

"Hey!" Ryan glowered in mock-indignation. "That's rooster-scratch. And you can type, Sandy? Really?"

"I? Am a man of many talents," Sandy declared with a facetious bow.

Ryan nodded, sobering instantly. "Yeah. I know." Closing his eyes, he took two deliberate, measured breaths, and then faced Sandy, his gaze direct, clear and candid. "I guess I never said this. But in case you didn't know . . . I love you, Sandy."

Sandy cupped Ryan's neck. "I love you too," he answered simply. "And I am very, very proud to call you my son . . . Now hurry up. I'm sticky, and the ice cream awaits. At least I hope it does—Seth mentioned that he was still hungry, so there are no guarantees."

With a groan, Ryan grabbed a clean t-shirt and disappeared into the bathroom. Sandy watched him go, his playful expression melting into one of pride, gratitude and deep, abiding affection.

"You can have the typed copy, kid," he murmured, reverently fingering the sheets of yellow paper covered with Ryan's scrawled, painstaking words. "But this one? This one, I plan to keep."

FIN


End file.
